THE-

 
 THE STRAW
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK BOSTON CHICAGO 
 ATLANTA SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED 
 
 LONDON BOMBAY CALCUTTA 
 MELBOURNE 
 
 THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. 
 
 TORONTO
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 BY 
 RINA RAMSAY 
 
 Nefo g0rfc 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 1909 
 
 All rikn rtttrvtd
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1909, 
 Bv THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 
 
 Set up and electrotyped. Published February, 1909. 
 
 J. 8. Gushing Co. Berwick & Smith Co. 
 Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
 
 
 THE STRAW
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 GAY had been out hunting with the Quorn. 
 On the ride home he had fallen into 
 the company of two or three kindred spirits, 
 dare-devil sportsmen, propounding the big- 
 gest joke of the season in the confidential 
 dusk. A word or two had been enough to fire 
 him, to make him, rocking in his saddle, throw 
 in his lot with them. 
 
 And now the moon was up, a winking, dis- 
 appearing moon, and the hilarious conspiracy 
 was afoot. 
 
 They had dined in Melton with Rafferty, 
 the sapper, who was qualified to draw on a 
 glorious experience of night alarms, and who 
 had ripped the lining out of his dinner-jacket 
 to improvise masks. As he had insisted, they 
 might as well do the thing in style.
 
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 Lord Robert, the instigator, had got rid of 
 his chauffeur, sending him with a cargo of 
 ladies-maids to the servants' ball at Burrough, 
 and had himself engineered his worst car with 
 all imaginable precaution into the sleeping 
 street. He was a bad driver but full of hope. 
 They had had one or two lucky misses at the 
 turnings, but his erratic steering had been 
 triumphant, and they were at last running 
 silently with hidden lamps along the pale 
 strip of the Leicester Road. 
 
 "That villain Burkinshaw," said Lord Rob- 
 ert feelingly, letting her hum. "I'll teach 
 him to snort at a poor devil who's had all 
 his family tin-pots stolen. How could / keep 
 out burglars from my ancestral cave in the 
 horrible wilds of Wales ? Boasting that only 
 a fool is robbed ! I'd like to see his face to- 
 morrow." 
 
 "Still," said Rafferty, "don't spill your con- 
 federates in the hedge." 
 
 Lord Robert slowed down a bit, peering 
 into the darkness and dipping suddenly off 
 the turnpike into the winding obscurity of 
 a rutted lane. A mile or two passed miracu- 
 lously without misfortune, and then he ran 
 under the lee of a thicket and shut off the 
 engine.
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "Come on," he said in a stage whisper, 
 squeezing through the briars to the moss- 
 stained wooden rails that guarded the planta- 
 tion. 
 
 "Wait till I find the tools," said Rafferty, 
 fumbling in the car. "I've provided a jemmy 
 and a rope ladder and a square of brown paper 
 smeared with marmalade treacle is the pro- 
 fessional article, but it wasn't to be had. And 
 I say, you fellows, kindly shuffle your feet 
 when you're planking them in a flower-bed, 
 or you'll have the police tracking us by our 
 boots." 
 
 "Reminds me," said Lord Robert sitting 
 on the top rail, with an air of unnatural pru- 
 dence. " I'm proposing to pull a pair of socks 
 over mine." 
 
 "Oh, come on," said Gay. 
 
 He pushed into the tangle of underwood, 
 stumbling over a fox-earth and bursting through 
 the brambles; reaching a dim, but open, 
 stretch of grass on the inner side; and the 
 others followed. 
 
 Faintly visible on the right was a fantastic 
 array of gravestones, weather-stained, leaning 
 drunkenly, reminiscent of a time when the mas- 
 sive, ivy-clad house was not simply the hunting 
 quarters of Burkinshaw. In parts it had been 
 
 3
 
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 rudely altered, but in the main it was still an 
 ancient manor, its ruggedness marred by the 
 long French windows now fast shuttered, that 
 had been knocked in the walls on the garden 
 side. Lord Robert went up to these with the 
 gliding tread of a wild Indian and tried the 
 fastenings with an impatient rattle. 
 
 "I'll get into this house," he said, "if I have 
 to go down the chimney/' 
 
 "There's no hurry," said Rafferty, cocking 
 his eye at the leaded diamond panes near the 
 roof. "With the whole staff footing it at 
 this ball at Burrough, and old Burkinshaw 
 snoring in his upper chamber, we can go canny. 
 Anybody staying in the house ?" 
 
 "Not that I know of," said Lord Robert 
 carelessly. "At least, no men. Stop that 
 young fool cackling ! He'll spoil it all." 
 
 The youngest of the party, Lord Robert's 
 cousin, subsided, stuffing his handkerchief into 
 his mouth as Gay, who had been stalking pos- 
 sibilities, came back grinning. Sure enough the 
 pantry window was on the latch. 
 
 "Magnificent!" said Lord Robert. "I'll 
 have the post of danger. Give me a leg up, 
 
 will you ? What the dickens ! Oh, I say, 
 
 that's too bad." 
 
 He was scrambling up like a cat, and an 
 
 4
 
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 unlucky trail of ivy had torn loose with him, 
 launching him backwards. He collapsed into 
 a bed of wallflowers and sat nursing his knee. 
 
 "I've lamed myself," he said lamentably. 
 "Up with you, Gay. Rafferty's too solid. 
 Never mind the spoons, but carry off Lady 
 Sarah. You can't miss her. She hangs in the 
 dining-room." 
 
 Gay swung himself to the sill of the un- 
 fastened window and, thrusting his arm in, 
 with a wrench and a pull was inside. Tread- 
 ing lightly he plunged, with an odd mixture of 
 recklessness and caution, into the unknown 
 risks of the dead, silent house. 
 
 This darkness was close and warm, unlike 
 that outside, and the hush was alive. He 
 caught himself wondering what ghosts were 
 likely to rise up in it and hinder him, and 
 there awoke in him an altogether reprehen- 
 sible joy in the situation. He felt the exhilara- 
 tion of the highwayman and the poacher, and 
 his spirit danced, caught up in the spell of 
 lawlessness. 
 
 The place was an irregular barrack, rather, 
 confusing to a marauder, the kitchen end of it 
 shut off by interminable passages from other 
 regions; but more by luck than knowledge 
 he turned into the right one and lighting a 
 
 5
 
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 candle (Rafferty's providence had included, 
 but smashed, a lantern) at last reached familiar 
 landmarks the stuffed wild beasts shot in 
 India by Burkinshaw (who might now be lurk- 
 ing in his nightshirt to add him to that collec- 
 tion), and the grinning masks in the hall. 
 Triumphantly he made his way into the smok- 
 ing-room and unbarred a window, signalling 
 to the others to stand ready; and then went 
 hunting for Lady Sarah hanging in unap- 
 proachable haughtiness in the dining-room. 
 His light flickered, throwing diabolical gleams 
 across her painted face with its aristocratic 
 grimness and its moustache Lady Sarah had, 
 in her time, been a witness to wilder work than 
 this as he hauled the picture down. It was 
 heavier than he imagined, immense in its 
 antique, gilded frame; but he was undis- 
 turbed at his work and lugged it across the 
 hall into the smoking-room, lowering it to his 
 fellow-conspirators down below. 
 
 "I say," whispered Lord Robert limping, 
 but bursting with delight. "Just rummage a 
 bit, will you, before you jump. Give the 
 establishment a decently burgled air." 
 
 "Right," said Gay. " 
 
 He went back into the hall, among the 
 glaring eyes of the tigers. His candle, in- 
 
 6
 
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 cautiously put down in the draught, had been 
 extinguished, but he had his matches. He 
 felt for it, striking flashes. 
 
 How villainously the planks creaked ! But 
 for that all was utter stillness. It was half a 
 pity there had been no skirmish, no alarm. . . . 
 His step was careless. 
 
 And then he heard a quick breath above him 
 and saw one watcher. The light flaring in his 
 fingers revealed her to him, pale and brave, 
 clasping the balustrade. 
 
 The sight of her, startling as it was, fixed 
 him, gazing. She looked so like a ghost and 
 still so real, leaning out of the dark, making 
 it living to him, clad in dim, blue silken stuff; 
 a young face with a shut but trembling mouth. 
 Gay was bewitched. 
 
 Then he realised his own sinister appear- 
 ance with Rafferty's ridiculous strip of black 
 satin hiding half his face, and that one poor 
 candle casting its weird shadows, painting 
 him a ruffian. In his hurry to reassure this 
 apparition, he forgot utterly to disguise his 
 voice, gentlemanly, apologetic. 
 
 "I won't hurt you," he said hastily. "I'm 
 frightfully sorry - 
 
 He saw the desperate bravery in her eyes 
 changing to bewilderment, heard her gasp 
 
 7
 
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 with a woman's illogical impulse, her instinc- 
 tive siding with a man in danger. 
 
 "Oh, you'll be caught," she whispered. 
 
 "I'm going; I'm going. You've routed 
 me," said Gay. 
 
 He turned; she would probably faint if he 
 stayed to parley. Ye gods, what a villain she 
 took him for ! turned back blindly into the 
 room where the rushing night air blew in. 
 Perhaps she would think he had just made his 
 way into the house. Anyhow, she saw him go 
 empty-handed. 
 
 He listened a minute, lingering unaccount- 
 ably, delaying his jump. Possibly because he 
 heard a rustle on the stairs, and it made him 
 curious. Possibly because the sight of her 
 had knocked him stupid. Was she actually 
 plucky enough was she venturing down 
 alone to find out if he had gone ? Well, 
 she shouldn't think he was tricking her. He 
 set his knee on the window-ledge to spring 
 out and follow the others whom he could just 
 distinguish staggering along, weak with laugh- 
 ter, dragging the picture with them into the 
 spinney. 
 
 And then he was arrested, thrilled by the 
 touch of slight fingers on his arm; he heard 
 a girl's voice, low and breathless, too eagerly 
 
 8
 
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 pitiful to know fear of a man of her own rank, 
 who had fallen so. 
 
 "I've given you this," she said. "It 
 might help; you might oh, I am sorry, I am 
 so sorry - - ! " 
 
 And she was gone like a dream, and he dared 
 not follow, pursue her, explain to her dared 
 not do anything but swing himself to the 
 grass; one hand closed mechanically on what 
 she had thrust into it. It was not money. 
 She must have caught up the first trinket she 
 had of any value. 
 
 His cheek burned hot in the sharp night air, 
 and he was divided between shame and a kind 
 of warm rapture in this adventure. Without 
 any sense of direction he blundered across the 
 garden, glad of the darkness, landing at last 
 among the rest of them watching for him 
 behind the thicket. They had packed Lady 
 Sarah inside the motor, and Lord Robert had 
 started his engine and was whistling up the 
 laggard. 
 
 "Whoop!" he said. "In with you. Why, 
 man, we were planning a rescue. We had no 
 manner of doubt Burkinshaw had nailed you 
 and was sitting on your head." 
 
 Gay hurled himself into the car as it started. 
 It was too dark to see without guessing now 
 
 9
 
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 the moon had gone down, and the heavens 
 were black, unpierced by any stars. Lord 
 Robert peered ahead, bent over the driving 
 wheel, running them precariously between 
 the brushing hawthorn hedges, winding nearer 
 and nearer without accident to the less perilous 
 obscurity of the Leicester Road. The wind 
 bit and Rafferty pulled out his flask. 
 
 Gay sat with his arm supporting a weight 
 of tarnished gilding, dumb in the midst of 
 their unhallowed exultation. He could not 
 share this thing that had happened to him, 
 neither could he just now whole-heartedly 
 play the fool. And he had not looked at what 
 he held safe and secret but it felt like a string 
 of pearls. 
 
 10
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE invariable east wind was king at the 
 Belvoir meet at Scalford. The trees 
 shivered and the grass had a wizened look. 
 
 Horses could not keep still with that sport- 
 ing nip in the air. They sidled and backed 
 restlessly all up the village street, making the 
 grooms' affectionate loitering at the public- 
 houses almost impossible by their cantrips. 
 Miles away the road rang ominously hard with 
 a noise of trotting, varied by the wailing tune 
 of motors. All were late and all were hurrying, 
 ignorant that hounds had only just turned up, 
 slipping in by the stack-yard. The huntsman, 
 ruddy and impervious to the blast, was ex- 
 changing tales with the faithful who had not 
 tarried and were warming themselves with 
 gossip. In these bleak five minutes the good 
 stories get a start that carries them over three 
 counties without a check. 
 
 A minute ago the field had been almost 
 empty, though a wall sheltered the numbed 
 
 ii
 
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 photographer, whose hunting is a chase of 
 celebrities and a wild escaping in and out 
 among their horses' heels. But already the 
 scarlet was sprinkled thicker and lit up the 
 landscape, threatened as it was by fugitive 
 flakes of snow. On a day like this there was 
 no mistaking the pale Londoner huddling near 
 the wall, feeling all this misery dear at three 
 guineas, eyeing his hireling as a treacherous 
 enemy with whom he was unacquainted, and 
 shuddering in his skin. The hardy follower 
 turned out with an extra thickness of flannel 
 under his waistcoat and an invincible com- 
 plexion fired instead of shrivelled by the 
 wind. 
 
 There are men who can hunt with a pack 
 for years and still slink into the field unnoticed, 
 but Gay had no chance of that. He rode in 
 at the gate hailed on all sides as a prodigal, 
 because he had been missed of late. His brown 
 mare picked her way with practised friendli- 
 ness into the group of squatting hounds, but 
 the huntsman was being cross-examined by 
 an importunate lady, who wished to find out 
 the faults of an animal that had once passed 
 through his hands, and who was not to be 
 contented by his non-committal verdict: "All 
 I can say is, my lady, he's not your horse." 
 
 12
 
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 So Gay turned away and was at once ac- 
 costed. 
 
 "You villain, what do you mean by desert- 
 ing us ?" 
 
 "Oh, come," said Gay. "I've been over 
 three weeks in Ireland." 
 
 "You were out yesterday with the Quorn." 
 
 "I can't be so uncivil as to turn my back on 
 them," said Gay, "when they are at my door." 
 
 Lord Robert, posted on a windy hillock 
 that raked all approaches, nodded at him, 
 preternaturally correct, stiff as a poker, the 
 last person one would suspect of original sin. 
 
 "Seen anything of Burkinshaw?" he asked. 
 "I'm on the look-out for him. There's an 
 astonishing rumour going round Melton, and" 
 lower " I've let out a hint to one or two 
 fellows. Oh, here's Maria ! Done again, it's 
 the parson." 
 
 A respectable rider in a dark coat and 
 breeches came into the narrow bit of lane 
 turning down to the field; a figure not at ail 
 remarkable till she came closer and you saw 
 that her hair, brushed flat, was tied with a 
 black silk ribbon. It was Mrs. Burkinshaw, 
 whom for no reason, since her name was 
 Elizabeth, the hunting world called Maria. 
 
 "She's riding that kicker Somers palmed off 
 13
 
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 on them," said Gay. " I wonder he doesn't 
 chuck her off." 
 
 "Not he," said Lord Robert, "the weight 
 of her would cow an elephant. I know how 
 Burkinshaw jumped at the innovation of her 
 riding on a cross saddle. 'Perfectly proper!' 
 said he, considering the sore backs in his 
 stables. It isn't the flighty ones take to it; 
 it's the ones with sensible husbands who pay 
 the piper." 
 
 "Well," said a man at his elbow, "it must 
 be more amusing to feel a horse between your 
 knees than to be hooked on to him as if he was 
 a clothes-peg." 
 
 Lord Robert, keeping his watch on the gate, 
 took off his hat to the lady. 
 
 "Somebody," he remarked, "asked me the 
 other day why the deuce she wore that black 
 bow. Said it was positively indecent to go 
 about advertising your sex like that." 
 
 "Oh, she doesn't wear it for that reason," 
 said Gay. " Don't you know Chop, the parson ? 
 You can't tell the two apart without it. We 
 are never quite clear which of them sports it, 
 all we know is it's to distinguish them from 
 each other." 
 
 "And the day before yesterday a farmer 
 picked it up," said Rafferty striking in, "and 
 ' 14
 
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 galloped after Chop most obligingly, and said : 
 'Beg pardon, you've dropped your bow, sir/ 
 Thought it some ritualistic adornment. We 
 left the parson thanking him out of the 
 Commination Service, but none of us said 
 Amen." 
 
 "Who is the girl?" said Gay; "the girl 
 coming with Maria?" 
 
 She had had some difficulty in making her 
 horse follow the other down. It was fresh 
 and skittish, pretending to be scared by the 
 flapping hood of a motor. So she rode in by 
 herself, holding her whip and reins carefully, 
 but betraying in her look of relief at having 
 controlled the creature, that she was not quite 
 at home in the saddle. Two or three people 
 smiled at her and she smiled too, deliciously, 
 colouring a little. Something pinned Gay's 
 attention to her the moment she came in 
 sight. 
 
 "She's the girl I am going to marry," said 
 Lord Robert promptly, "when I have dis- 
 posed of the other six. How is it that most 
 of our beauties go out like a candle when you 
 put them under a riding-hat?" 
 
 "I've heard," said the man next him, "that 
 she is an heiress that Maria who can't see two 
 impossible people without shaking them up 
 
 15
 
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 together is throwing to the lions. They say 
 she has mints of money, and Maria has booked 
 her to set Bill Lauder on his legs." 
 
 Lord Robert whistled. 
 
 "Lauder, of all men!" he remarked. "If 
 that's it there'll be the devil to pay when So- 
 phia Bland comes back with a divorce in her 
 pocket. She won't let him go without a 
 struggle." 
 
 The other man laughed. 
 
 "Maria believes in the distribution of 
 wealth," he said. "Thinks herself kind- 
 hearted. There'll be a pretty fight." 
 
 "Here's Burkinshaw," said Lord Robert, 
 pricking up, as, with a face of hypocritical 
 sympathy, he bore down upon the victim, 
 whose arrival was made known by a circulating 
 grin. 
 
 Gay kept aloof. He durst not make one of 
 the audience collecting to enjoy Burkinshaw's 
 furious recital. It wasn't guilt, it was a kind 
 of shyness with which nobody, least of all 
 himself, would have charged the devil-may- 
 care, impecunious Gay, who was one of Maria's 
 failures, having flatly refused to buy prosperity 
 at the hands of a woman, and who had lately 
 come back the same cheerful pauper (after 
 spending two or three unprofitable years in 
 
 16
 
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 those parts of America that bloodthirsty writers 
 pick out on the map to locate their shooting 
 stones in) to an inheritance worth little, and a 
 neighbourhood that had missed him sadly. 
 
 He stayed on the outskirts of the congrega- 
 tion, disregarding Rafferty's invitation to push 
 in and hear the fun, and pretending to humour 
 his mare who, not being coddled in a box 
 reeking of ammonia and as hot as an oven, 
 was behaving in the bitter wind with the 
 patience of an unshorn lamb. 
 
 "And," concluded Burkinshaw solemnly, in 
 his loud bass voice, that even in calamity 
 sounded boastful, "the rascals were no raw 
 hands, confound them. They appear to have 
 been disturbed at their work." 
 
 Gay looked over their heads at the girl then; 
 he could not help it. His heart leapt and then 
 dropped unaccountably, because her eyes were 
 cast down. 
 
 "But," said the pompous victim, "they 
 got away with a valuable historical painting 
 the portrait of Lady Sarah." 
 
 "Shocking!" said Lord Robert. "Look 
 here, Rafferty and I want you to dine with us 
 to-night, in Melton. It will be handy for you 
 to pop up and down communicating with the 
 police. And we'll do what we can to console 
 c 17
 
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 you. Hounds moving off, are they ? Mind 
 you come. It's a bit of a secret, but some of 
 us are getting up a kind of a presentation." 
 
 He shortened his reins and dropped his 
 profoundly sympathetic tone for a moment. 
 
 "You treat your ancestors most disrespect- 
 fully, do you know ? " he fired over his shoul- 
 der. "The back of her's thick with cobwebs." 
 
 Squeezing through the gate he was cut off 
 by the press of riders closing in on all sides, 
 clattering through the village, praying all for 
 a stone fox in Melton Spinney and no dismal 
 halt at the bleak top corner, huddling near the 
 inadequate shelter of that one bit of untrimmed 
 hedge. 
 
 And the hunting gods were kind. Before 
 the tail of the long procession had passed the 
 farm on the rise, there was a cry at the cover, 
 a noise of thudding hoofs the imprudent 
 charging down to the brook, too hasty to 
 pause and listen before splashing through the 
 ford, and deceived by that old trick of the 
 spinney foxes who, making a false start, begin 
 their real journey in the opposite direction to 
 that in which their prelude has misguided half 
 the pursuit. 
 
 This one had let himself be seen dashing out 
 at the bottom to within a yard of the brook, 
 
 18
 
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 had turned when all eyes were gazing to track 
 his line beyond, zigzagged rapidly, and dart- 
 ing in again had spun up the ride in the mid- 
 dle of the cover and shot out across the road 
 on the top, now deserted It must have been 
 music to him to hear the galloping hundreds 
 thundering down to the bottom on either 
 side. But a whip, lurking on the watch, 
 called the hounds on to him and they took up 
 his line, and flashed right through, over the 
 road, skimming the plough like birds, turning 
 right-handed and swooping over the further 
 hillside fringed by its line of ragged thorn- 
 trees. 
 
 The field, circling round the spinney, gath- 
 ered again and came after like an army, keep- 
 ing down the turf and cramming into the heavy 
 bit of lane in the dip that excused three fences. 
 Climbing the hill they scattered, suddenly hid- 
 den in whirling snow. 
 
 For two or three minutes the squall that 
 had caught them darkened the earth. Hounds 
 were inaudible, invisible to the brave who, 
 winking fast, by instinct kept blindly on. And 
 then magically it cleared and Freeby Wood 
 loomed in the distance, black beyond the 
 glistening stretches of grey-green grass. 
 
 "Hallelujah!" shouted Gay, pulling out his 
 19
 
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 handkerchief and wiping his eyes as he galloped. 
 "There they are. And running - !" 
 
 Lord Robert shot past him, rubbing his face 
 on his sleeve. 
 
 "That was a stinger," he said. "Ah, there's 
 that rail. It's turned me over before. If 
 Paddy remembers it as well as I do he'll be 
 careful. If not, it means another doctor's 
 bill." 
 
 He crashed sublimely into the rail he men- 
 tioned, but it splintered harmlessly as he and 
 his chestnut vanished, a vision of flying heels; 
 and the next man veered from his own line to 
 take advantage of the sudden gap. Gay had 
 shown the way over without a touch; he was 
 worse to follow. 
 
 The run was turning into a steeplechase, so 
 breathless was it, with hounds scouring faster 
 and faster on to a screaming scent, and the 
 east wind flinging back their cry in the teeth 
 of pursuit. It was not a time to diverge toward 
 gates, nor even for glancing right and left 
 in search of the easy places each man car- 
 ried in his head; it was just up and over. 
 If your horse couldn't take a fence clean and 
 pecked on landing, you made it up between 
 this mistake and the next, mindful to keep a 
 grip on the reins if you found yourself in the 
 
 20
 
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 ditch and you hadn't time to think of break- 
 ing a collarbone. For the fox had been driven 
 straight through the wood, and was keeping 
 to that good line that means death or Coston 
 Cover. He flashed over the hillside like a 
 streak of lightning, ran down into the valley, 
 put the brook between him and his pursuers, 
 and slackening as he climbed the big pastures 
 on the slope, was run into within two or three 
 fields of triumph. 
 
 There were not many in it, and there had 
 been great grief behind. Thirty minutes at 
 that pace had weeded out all but the stoutest, 
 had sprinkled the fields with stragglers. 
 
 Gay, who had been down twice, but for all 
 that had struggled up, slid out of his saddle, 
 and after looking his mare over, felt himself. 
 His coat was slit up the back and his hat was a 
 concertina. 
 
 "What a day!" he said. 
 
 "Splendid," chimed in another man, who 
 was staunching a smarting scratch, and puffing 
 like a grampus. "But it's all very fine riding 
 on the top of the ground like this. Mud is 
 more agreeable to the ribs." 
 
 Lord Robert was scanning the horizon for 
 his second horse, having much too wisely 
 ordered his man to hang about down-wind. 
 
 31
 
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 "Awful thing superstition," he grumbled. 
 "Fm sure the foxes delight in running bang 
 against it. What do they care in their hearts 
 which way the wind is ? They're skimming 
 close to the ground themselves; it's we who 
 get all the battering in a gale. I wish I could 
 find a man with the wit to disobey my orders. 
 I can't ride this brute another yard." 
 
 A dealer who had come out to give an un- 
 known quantity his first sight of hounds, and 
 had wonderfully survived, drew his prodigy 
 alongside Lord Robert's washy chestnut. 
 
 "Care to try him, my lord?" he suggested 
 blandly. The young 'un flung up his head 
 snorting. His eye was wild and his neck was 
 white with lather. 
 
 "Thanks; I haven't the nerves to ride a 
 steam engine," said Lord Robert. "There's 
 another squall coming up." 
 
 "It looks to me," said his neighbour, "as if 
 there are enough loose horses in our tracks 
 already to start a circus." 
 
 "And one's a side-saddle," said Gay, desert- 
 ing the happy band falling in behind the hunts- 
 man. He knew the beast; he had ridden him 
 himself, and sold him to Burkinshaw. And he 
 felt as if Fate had sent him careering riderless 
 to his hand. He began his search with a 
 
 22
 
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 curious sense of its inevitableness. Oddly 
 enough he was not thinking much that she 
 might be hurt. Fortune had sent him this 
 opportunity, and in one breath he was assuring 
 himself that she could not possibly recognise 
 him as last night's ruffian, and, on the other 
 hand, that now he had his chance to explain. 
 
 There was a fall in the wind, or rather he 
 did not feel it, since it was behind him, driving 
 him instead of buffeting in his face. How 
 quickly the riotous life had left the trampled 
 pastures over which they had galloped ! They 
 lay below him like empty wastes. Here and 
 there the disturbed cattle were herding in the 
 corners, panting after a stampede; and the 
 sheep were still running all together. There 
 was no guessing how far her horse might have 
 followed unstayed, nor how far from him she 
 might be lying crumpled under a hedge. 
 
 Gay pushed on faster, burst through a gap 
 with his two horses and nearly let out a shout 
 when at last he saw her. 
 
 She was gallantly trudging through the bents 
 and rushes that hid the uneven bottom, her torn 
 habit over her arm, her hat gone, her head flung 
 back, courageous. 
 
 The Samaritan cantered down to her, want- 
 ing no introduction. 
 
 23
 
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 "Your horse, I think," he said, as simply as 
 he could, face to face with her in the daylight. 
 
 "How kind of you,'* she said. "I am lost." 
 
 Gay looked from the darkening heavens to 
 the windswept country that was a desert round 
 them, blessing the hill that shut away the 
 survivors of the run, making for Waltham 
 Thorns. 
 
 "Burkinshaw had no business to put you 
 on this clumsy brute," he said. "I'll talk to 
 Maria. He isn't a lady's horse." 
 
 She started at his voice, looking at him 
 earnestly, slightly catching her breath as she 
 spoke to him again. He was stooping to put 
 her up in the saddle. 
 
 "Oh, it wasn't the horse's fault," she said. 
 "I rode him badly. I was frightened." 
 
 " Frightened ? " said Gay. The word jumped 
 out of him. "Frightened? Toil?" 
 
 His exclamation betrayed him to her; he 
 was sure of it, wondering what would happen. 
 For one moment both were silent, and then 
 a blizzard was upon them and the air was thick 
 with snow that obliterated trees and sky and the 
 hill and the world itself. 
 
 "There's a haystack this way," said Gay, half 
 smothered; "and a hovel." 
 
 They scampered frantically towards it, in- 
 24
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 disti-nct as it was. The hovel was low and 
 dark and they could not ride into it without 
 dismounting, but at least it was a refuge from 
 the blinding storm. With his head bent Gay 
 dashed out into the turmoil, pulling an armful 
 of hay from the stack to stuff into the rude 
 manger, for his fellow-fugitive to sit on, and 
 then stood with the horses, outwardly quiet, 
 staring into the whirl. 
 
 "There's blood on your cheek," she said. 
 
 Was her voice for him always to hold com- 
 passion ? He turned his head, still wondering 
 at himself and how it took hold of him. 
 
 "It's nothing," he said. "Like a good many 
 others I took a toss. ... I should like to ask 
 you ... do you know who I am?" 
 
 "I knew when you spoke," she said. 
 
 "And you are not nervous?" said Gay. 
 "Taking shelter like this in a robber's cave?" 
 
 "Not now," she said. "I I am beginning 
 to understand." 
 
 "Are you thinking of bribing the criminal 
 to emigrate and lead a honest life in a foreign 
 land?" said Gay. The murder was out, and 
 he felt extraordinarily lighthearted. 
 
 "Ah, don't laugh at me," she said. He 
 thought her voice shook a little as if at a recol- 
 lection. 
 
 25
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "Laugh at you," he cried hotly. "I'd 
 
 sooner " and controlled himself. "Then 
 
 you have guessed that the lot of us were taking 
 a rise out of Burkinshaw ? You heard them 
 at the meet ? You are not astonished - 
 
 "That you look so respectable," she said 
 gravely. 
 
 Conscious of his damaged condition he 
 bowed as gravely, but his eyes twinkled. 
 
 "Heaven be thanked!" he said. "I was 
 obliged to bolt, letting you think the worst. 
 Tell me who you are. I have to restore your 
 charitable benefaction." 
 
 "I am Judy Stewart," she said; "the 
 Burkinshaws are my cousins." 
 
 " You're not - ' he exclaimed, stopping 
 himself in time. 
 
 When was it that Maria, raiding his house 
 out of pure curiosity and finding it upside 
 down, finding also three cattle-dealers drinking 
 whisky in the dining-room, and mistaking them 
 for bailiffs in possession, had generously of- 
 fered to marry him to her husband's cousin ? 
 A good girl she had said, but harmless, with 
 a gun factory in the background. It was not 
 so long ago that he could not recall his own 
 lordly scorn. 
 
 "Yes," she said; "I am that wandering 
 26
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 shuttlecock. I've no real relations; nobody 
 to sc9ld me. That is why I do silly things." 
 Faltering, almost beseeching, as if troubled 
 by a vision of ridicule, she finished: "You 
 won't tell?" 
 
 "It's our secret," said Gay. 
 
 She didn't know how could she ? that 
 Maria had been putting her up to the lowest 
 bidder; that Maria, in her moonstruck philan- 
 thropy, was offering her to her needy friends. 
 And so she had nobody on her side, no rela- 
 tions to scold her and keep her safe ? A great 
 longing to shield her seized him, himself im- 
 possible, miserably poor. She looked so young, 
 so full of a dangerous confidence that had 
 never known treachery or unkindness. 
 
 "You shouldn't do things like that," he 
 said, following his confused and angry thoughts. 
 "We're not worth pity. We're not worth 
 helping. None of us. We're brutes. Some 
 day you'll hurt yourself." 
 
 The girl was startled by his irrelevant fierce- 
 ness, but instinct helped her to answer lightly. 
 
 "Do you mean," she said, "that if you had 
 been a real burglar you would have murdered 
 me?" 
 
 "Of course I mean that," he said, dropping 
 into mock seriousness. "A reasonable creature 
 
 27
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 would have ducked her head under a pillow 
 and screamed for help." , 
 
 Through his banter vibrated an undertone 
 of worship; dimly she felt it, knowing that 
 in his soul this man was not laughing at her, 
 but not faintly guessing what thoughts were 
 his. The wind whistled through the chinks 
 in the clay walls and made her shiver; the 
 horses were stirring in thin-skinned restless- 
 ness, rubbing their heads as if in excuse against 
 the man. Their eyes shone in the semi-dark- 
 ness, luminous and kind. 
 
 Judy liked Leicestershire, liked the quick 
 intimacy that sprang up among kindred spirits, 
 the friendships that followed the accidents of 
 a day without the suspicious paving of an 
 acquaintance; all foolishness when you saw 
 at a glance what a man was made of, when his 
 risks were yours and you lent each other un- 
 questioning a helping hand; when you could 
 read him for yourself in a minute. She liked 
 the men. They were so real, so regardless of 
 the world's opinions and, like all sportsmen, the 
 hardest veterans, always young. 
 
 If there seemed to her sometimes something 
 wrong about the women, a rivalry, a hardness, 
 the fancy passed over her head. After all, 
 saints and sinners, they were good to her. . . . 
 
 28
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 And now, sitting on a bundle of hay in this 
 dark mud hovel, being taken care of by a man 
 with whom comradeship had begun so strangely, 
 and who stood guarding the entrance in his 
 tattered scarlet coat, like a soldier defending 
 her from the blast, she was happy and not 
 surprised. Idly she wondered what her cousin 
 had in her mind when she had pointed him 
 out at the meet, with a sniff that was half 
 impatient and half indulgent. 
 
 "That's Jimmy Gay," she had said. "A 
 dear, but impracticable. Quite impracticable. 
 I've washed my hands of him." 
 
 But he was the hero or should she not say 
 the villain ? of Judy's one adventure. 
 
 "I'll send your pearls by registered post," 
 he said. "Commonplace, but safer than keep- 
 ing them in my pocket till I find a chance of 
 handing them to you, though I live within 
 a stone's throw. I can watch your windows 
 twinkling from my own. Poor old Burkin- 
 shaw will get his ancestor back all right; we 
 are bad, but we are comparatively honest; 
 we don't pawn our booty. You know why he 
 makes a fetish of Lady Sarah ?" 
 
 "No," she said. The squall was passing; 
 already the world that had been blotted out 
 was less invisible, whirling still. 
 
 29
 
 "Well, she was a gay old party in the cen- 
 tury she lived in, and owing to faults of her 
 own got into history. Burkinshaw's father 
 swore by her as a tutelary deity, and carted 
 her about with his family from place to place 
 till they settled in Leicestershire, and some 
 self-made person he wouldn't notice hired a 
 man to write a book on county families, and 
 show her up in all her original wickedness. It 
 was a horrid shock to her pious descendants. 
 But they had the last word." 
 
 "How?" she said, falling into his mood. 
 His smile was contagious. 
 
 " Burkinshaw's parent posted off to a literary 
 nephew he had disowned, and as the price of 
 forgiveness got him to write a novel with 
 plenty of local colour and a murder that was 
 committed in the enemy's Elizabethan man- 
 sion. There was an awful row when pilgrims 
 began to haunt it, snapshotting at large, and 
 plaguing the inhabitants to let them gloat over 
 spots of blood. The thing got on their nerves, 
 and they gave up and departed to Devonshire, 
 leaving the Burkinshaws triumphant on the 
 field of battle." 
 
 As he talked he was looking to the horses' 
 girths, tightening her curb chain a link or two, 
 examining her saddle. 
 
 3
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "It's fine now," he said at last. "Shall we 
 start out and find them ? They couldn't run 
 a yard in that; we shall catch them hanging 
 round the Thorns pitying themselves." 
 
 "I would rather find my way home," she 
 said, standing up. "I am awfully stiff, and I 
 have lost my hat." 
 
 "Tie a handkerchief over your head," said 
 Gay promptly. "Oh, mine is bigger than 
 that. Will you have it ? I'll get your hat if 
 it hasn't blown into Lincolnshire. Are you 
 stiff, really? Too stiff to ride?" 
 
 He stood considering her as she failed 
 ignominiously in her effort to spring into the 
 saddle, smiling rather piteously up at him, 
 bruised by her tumble. And then he moved 
 out into the field brandishing the red silk 
 handkerchief he had shaken out to put on her 
 head. The storm had passed as quickly as it 
 came up, and although the wind rioted there 
 was not one white feather in the air. Away on 
 the right they heard a trotting of many horses 
 and near at hand, like an echo, the solitary 
 pattering of one. 
 
 "That is Tokenhouse," said Gay, pointing 
 to a huge umbrella travelling on the other 
 side of the hedge. "My lodger. He has a 
 knack of turning up when he is wanted. He'll 
 
 31
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 take you home safe and sound, and I'll put 
 your horse in here and tell Maria's second 
 horseman where he is. Do you want a pin for 
 your habit ? I've got a fine one I was intending 
 to stick in my back." 
 
 He buckled the reins hastily, with the help 
 of a rusty cow-chain, round the post that kept 
 up the sinking roof of the hovel, and walked 
 over to the hedge. 
 
 The girl's misfortunes had stiffened her 
 gait into a pathetic hobble, but she reached 
 him in time to hear him explaining the situa- 
 tion to a man in a gig who, when she looked 
 at him closely, was much younger than she 
 expected; a lean, clean-shaven, quiet man, 
 who had a worsted comforter twisted round 
 his neck. He glanced at her, a slight interest 
 quickening his curiously tired expression. 
 
 "Lord Tokenhouse will take care of you," 
 said Gay. "Shut up your old umbrella, To- 
 kenhouse, and make room for her. There is no 
 gate convenient, so if you don't mind, I'll 
 drop you over." 
 
 With gentle unceremoniousness he swung 
 her over the barrier of thorns and then, get- 
 ting on to his horse, flicked over the hedge 
 himself. 
 
 "And now," he said, "I'll go on and harrow 
 32
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 Maria's feelings. What fearful thing shall I 
 say has become of you ?" 
 
 Out of nowhere a brown horse came crash- 
 ing into the lane, sending bits of turf flying 
 as he was spurred along, pulled on his haunches 
 just in time to avoid cannoning into them. 
 
 "Where are hounds?" called his rider. 
 "I've been hunting them high and low. Just 
 
 because I was late ! I hear they have had 
 
 a run." 
 
 He made an imposing figure, curbing his 
 chafing beast, his mouth dark with vexation; 
 a handsome, ill-tempered man. As he spoke, 
 he caught sight of the girl and saluted her. 
 
 "Anything wrong?" he said. His tone was 
 imperious; he surveyed her with a displeasure 
 akin to the jealousy of possession. 
 
 She answered him with the apologetic hurry 
 a girl might use towards a man who had, per- 
 haps unacknowledged, rights. 
 
 "I have had a spill," she said. "I was 
 stupid." 
 
 "And she has had enough of it," said the 
 man Gay had introduced as his lodger, cutting 
 off explanations. "I am taking her home. 
 Keep it up, Lauder; you'll find them a hun- 
 dred miles further on." 
 
 He turned half round to watch the other 
 33
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 man, contemplating him with a curious crooked 
 smile until he was out of sight. 
 
 "So you know Bill Lauder?" he said. 
 
 The girl coloured. Two men were looking 
 at her. . . . 
 
 "Yes," she said. 
 
 Tokenhouse stooped, tucking the shabby 
 bearskin carefully round her. Then he drew 
 the reins through his fingers, nodding at Gay. 
 
 "Hounds are creeping miserably at this 
 side of Stonesby Ashes," he said. " You'll be 
 into them round the corner. They can do 
 nothing with this fox. You people always 
 scoff at me when I tell you scent depends on 
 the foxes and not the weather. Off with you ! 
 I'll take care of her." 
 
 34
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 JUDY came down the stair. 
 Always, as now, she laid her hand on 
 the rail with a funny faintness, imagining, 
 living in that adventure; lifted it to the pearls 
 at her neck and smiled a little smile, all to 
 herself. 
 
 There were several men in the hall below, 
 standing about the big fire, talking loudly. 
 She saw their faces beneath as she paused far 
 above them, and their gossip came up to her. 
 It was for the most part jargon, but mixed 
 occasionally with names that were known to 
 her. There had been a wind-frost last night, 
 sharp enough to make men chary of risking 
 their best horses, and everybody had left off 
 early. 
 
 "Anybody seen Lauder?" Burkinshaw was 
 inquiring, stirring his tea and dropping in 
 lump after lump while his wife's back was 
 turned and he could seize on sugar instead of 
 his allotted globule of saccharin. 
 
 35
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "No. He wasn't out. I heard he had run 
 up to London," said someone else, and a third 
 struck in. 
 
 "He didn't. He was going out with the 
 Belvoir; said he was sure they'd manage a 
 gallop in the Vale." 
 
 "If ever a man was desperate," said the 
 first, "he looks it. Ruin staring him in the 
 face at every turn. He must have gone all to 
 smash." 
 
 "It was his own fault," said Burkin- 
 shaw magisterially. "Gambling and racing, 
 and- 
 
 The man laughed. 
 
 "Lucky for you, Burkinshaw, that Lauder 
 wasn't in that affair the other night. He'd 
 have helped himself to something more useful 
 than your great-great-grand-aunt. He's in a 
 mood to stick at nothing." 
 
 Burkinshaw ignored the ribald remark. He 
 was still in a condition of elephantine uncer- 
 tainty whether to roar with the community 
 at the joke, or to rage at its perpetrators. His 
 mind rocked between the two. 
 
 "After all," said the first man, "it's hor- 
 rible to go under. And Lauder isn't the kind 
 of man he can't pull himself together. No 
 ballast, nothing to keep him straight. He's 
 
 36
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 more than likely to end it, one way or another, 
 across a fence." 
 
 "Sh!" said Maria. 
 
 They started guiltily at the emphasis of her 
 interposition, and were dumb, but the fancy 
 crossed at least one man's mind that she might 
 have hissed at them sooner if she had 
 really wanted to shut them up. As it was her 
 whisper lent to what they had said impor- 
 tance. 
 
 "White lady, white lady," said Burkinshaw 
 facetiously, staring upwards, "come down to 
 your tea." 
 
 "You have got it wrong," said Maria. "In 
 the rhyme she was a green lady, and she turned 
 into a serpent and ate up the servant as well 
 as the bread and butter." 
 
 "Then," said Burkinshaw stoutly, "nobody 
 will insinuate that that version is more suitable 
 than mine." 
 
 Judy came down to them, more like a pale 
 princess than any serpent. The heiress had no 
 terrors for these men, married veterans who 
 saw in her only a young thing in Maria's 
 clutches, to be pitied and encouraged, but with 
 no thought of rescue. All of them had a 
 wholesome respect for Maria, who had a 
 man's knowledge of outdoor things, but whose 
 
 37
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 terrible firmness inspired alarm in anybody 
 it struck her she ought to settle in life. 
 
 Burkinshaw himself had been heard to 
 thank heaven that he was married to her; his 
 only security against being polished off in his 
 turn. And there was a profane tale that 
 Maria had once been caught shaking her head 
 disconsolately over some suitable importation, 
 explaining that had things been otherwise the 
 lady would have done excellently for Dicky. 
 
 Experience had taught the onlookers to 
 keep to their own province. They felt kindly 
 towards the subject of Maria's generalship, 
 but with no more idea of interrupting her 
 march than that of an immutable Providence. 
 If this girl were the straw destined to save 
 Bill Lauder; if Lauder should clutch at her 
 like a drowning man; and if Maria had made 
 this salvage her business, it was not theirs. 
 
 "So Tokenhouse picked you up the other 
 day and took you home in his chariot," said a 
 man who had put a seat for her in the hottest 
 corner, and was keeping the fire off her cheek 
 with a sporting paper (to which his eye wan- 
 dered in conversation). "How do you like 
 him?" 
 
 "I like him very much," said Judy; "but 
 isn't he rather odd ?" 
 
 38
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "Odd? I should think so. That man 
 was the finest steeplechase rider in England. 
 There was no one to touch him across the 
 sticks - 
 
 " Poor Tokenhouse ! " said Maria. 
 
 - Till one day he was riding in a match 
 with Bill Lauder and a few other fellows ; they 
 had a lot on it and they were all mad to win, 
 going like blazes, and they got mixed up at 
 one of the jumps; there were five of them in 
 a heap, and Tokenhouse underneath. He ought 
 to have been killed, but he wasn't." 
 
 "I can see it now," interrupted another 
 man. "Two of them down and the others 
 spinning up to the fence one by one nothing 
 on earth could stop 'em coming over crash 
 on the top." 
 
 "Tokenhouse hasn't been on a horse since," 
 said the man who was telling Judy. "His 
 nerve is gone. He was the first down, and if 
 the rest of them had been professionals in- 
 stead of crack-brained lunatics, they'd have 
 been warned off. Poor old Tokenhouse ! He 
 lives with Gay and saunters among us like his 
 own ghost in the hunting season. They say 
 he has a screw loose; that his one amusement 
 is writing sermons on the wickedness of the 
 Turf." 
 
 39
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "AH I know is," said another, "he's the 
 most extraordinary chap with horses. Under- 
 stands them. Chucks away his cigarette at a 
 stable door." 
 
 "He is a kind of confidential adviser to all 
 the men he knows," said the first man who had 
 spoken. "Sort of mild-mannered, quiet man 
 to whom you can trust your secrets. And two 
 years ago he was one of the most reckless 
 customers under the sun. They tell stories of 
 Tokenhouse - - ! " 
 
 He dropped the subject for want of words, 
 and looking over Judy's head at the window, 
 gave an astonished whistle, and ceased fanning 
 the fire industriously under the impression that 
 he was shielding her. 
 
 "Here is Bill Lauder himself," he said. 
 "He looks as if he has had a hard day. This 
 isn't his way home surely ?" 
 
 Maria glanced suddenly at her husband. 
 
 "If any of you are going to give me your 
 opinion about the bay, come along," said 
 Burkinshaw, like a lamb. " I'm inclined to have 
 him fired. It's near the end of the season." 
 
 Blindly grasping the signal that they were 
 not wanted, he shepherded them out, sweep- 
 ing the latest arrival with them, his mistake. 
 The cheerful masculine voices became distant, 
 
 40
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 and died away towards the stables. . . . And 
 then all at once Judy sprang up, with a sense 
 of Fate close upon her. 
 
 " You heard what they said, didn't you ? 
 It's in your hands. Be a little kind to him, 
 Judy," said Maria; and then was not. 
 
 And still the girl did not run away. 
 
 Lauder came into the house alone, a splendid 
 figure in splashed scarlet, bearing himself with 
 a defiant swagger and all the signs of having 
 ridden hard; perhaps dangerously, perhaps 
 trying how had they put it ? to end it 
 across a fence. The fire, more potent than 
 the fading light without, glistened in his eyes 
 as in the glass eyeballs of the tigers lurking in 
 the dim recesses of the hall, the familiar tro- 
 phies terrible to strangers. He looked too big, 
 too magnificent as a man, to rock on the brink 
 of ruin. 
 
 The girl's heart was beating with an excite- 
 ment that was half frightened, half fascination. 
 It had flattered her to watch his recklessness 
 in the field, to hear, while she caught her 
 breath and admired, Maria's cunning whisper. 
 For Maria had been indefatigable, fanning an 
 inclination to worship daring, dazzling her 
 fish before landing her with the fatal net of 
 compassion. 
 
 41
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "I want to ask you something," said Lauder 
 hoarsely. 
 
 "Yes . . ." she murmured faintly, turning 
 away her head because she could not bear the 
 desperate look she must meet ... it made 
 her shiver. And she was young; there had 
 not been any man yet to ask her what she knew 
 this man would. 
 
 Lauder came nearer still. 
 
 This thing was so important that his heavy 
 pride was broken; its urgency washed away in 
 the tide of necessity his air of overriding ob- 
 stacles, of crashing mightily into Fate. He 
 paled under his tan and stammered. Maria 
 had not lied; the girl had his life in her 
 hands. 
 
 There was no love in his eyes, no passion, 
 and he did not know how to simulate either; 
 hard-driven, betraying only his desperate need 
 of her. He was catching at a straw. 
 
 It touched her. Pity had always moved 
 Judy first of all emotions; she who had wanted 
 for nothing, who had found kindness where 
 she looked for it, perhaps not quite knowing 
 how little she claimed, and who had danced 
 up to womanhood without having to learn 
 in bitterness to battle for herself. And she 
 had no vanity to accuse him. Just because 
 
 42
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 his want of passion awakened no woman's 
 instinct, it gave her no warning in the shudder- 
 ing anger that springs to life against it, guard- 
 ing a woman's breast. Lauder was not a 
 lover, he was a irten in dire necessity asking for 
 her help. The sight of his hand unsteady 
 made her heart weak like water. 
 
 "Will you marry me ?" he said. 
 
 She put out her hands to him without a 
 word. 
 
 He did not kiss her. Instead he gripped the 
 fingers that lay in his and took a hard breath 
 as if he had indeed ended it one way or 
 another across a fence. 
 
 "I'm not worth it," he said, in a rough 
 voice that broke and was almost humble; but 
 did not loose her hands. 
 
 43
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 IT was said of Gay that on coming into his 
 family obligations he had blankly decided 
 to emigrate and then, struck by an inspiration, 
 had walked out of his front door and walked 
 in again at the back, proclaiming that he was 
 now landed in a desert island without running 
 to the extravagance of a voyage, and was 
 emancipated from the chains of convention. 
 Symbolically he had wrenched off his knocker, 
 and used it in some extraordinary agricultural 
 experiment when the blacksmith asked for a 
 bit of iron. 
 
 His house was an old one, keeping the 
 tumble-down remains of a former grandeur, 
 and stood midway between Ashby Pastures 
 and another famous cover. Originally it had 
 its back to the west, but Gay's grandfather 
 had picked up the massive flight of steps that 
 descended from the great door and putting 
 them down on the other side of the house had 
 knocked a hole in the wall, and now the 
 
 44
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 stranger walked straight up into the house 
 from the road. Explaining his alteration, he 
 had said that Leicestershire houses had no 
 manners, and he did not like their rude 
 habit of turning their backs on the passers- 
 by. 
 
 In his odd moments Gay farmed more or 
 less vigorously. It was a scriptural amusement 
 that in no way interfered with the business of 
 his life, which was hunting; and his luck was 
 a miracle to the many who tried to combine 
 the two; retired soldiers and younger sons 
 with faith in their capacity and a little money 
 to lose in keeping unprofitable horses and, 
 theoretically, profitable cows. This morning 
 he had ridden round his fields shepherding in 
 desert-island fashion. 
 
 With the Cottesmore at Wild's Lodge at 
 twelve he was in no hurry, but scanned the 
 clouds and the dull sky cheerfully, as he in- 
 spected his flocks and herds in a ragged old 
 coat that smelt of tar. On the right of him 
 hung the Pastures, on his left, across a bit of 
 fine jumping country, where the winter after- 
 noons saw many a frantic scurry backwards 
 and forwards, a darker patch. And the same 
 road that passed his house twisted and turned 
 until it reached that of Burkinshaw. 
 
 45
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 Standing in his stirrups Gay could see it, 
 not half the distance across the fields, sunk in 
 a hollow, its chimneys rising to fix a man's 
 wandering gaze. 
 
 He came in and dressed himself with re- 
 markable care. 
 
 "What are you riding ?" said Tokenhouse. 
 
 Gay pulled off his tie and began to fold 
 another carefully round his neck. It would 
 not lie smooth. 
 
 "Fanny," he said. "The one I'm qualify- 
 ing for Burton. It rained last night; the bone 
 is out of the ground. And then the brown I 
 brought back from Ireland." 
 
 "Staying out all day?" said Tokenhouse. 
 
 "I suppose so," said Gay, and then glanced 
 up, still worrying with his clothes. "There's 
 a motor passing. Beastly things. ... In the 
 old days you jogged to the meet with your 
 neighbours now the neighbours whizz up 
 behind you and run you down." 
 
 "And the girl you want to ride with flashes 
 past inaccessible, shut up in a glass case. It's 
 as bad as witchcraft," said Tokenhouse with 
 a gently ironic smile. "But there's always 
 the ride home." 
 
 " Yes," said Gay, " there's always the ride 
 home." 
 
 4 6
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 He looked ten years younger robbed of his 
 air of peaceable confidence, reddening, wist- 
 ful, and, alas, in earnest. 
 
 " Poor devil ! " said Tokenhouse. 
 
 The Saturday crowd was alarming. Gay 
 could hardly make his way through the strug- 
 gling tides at the cross-roads. On all sides 
 arrivals were whirring up, and the grooms 
 were hanging on to their horses. The whole 
 world seemed to be emptying itself into that 
 one field, lured by the promise of the dull 
 heavens, unsmiling overhead. It was a sight 
 to shake any Master and set him devising 
 plans. A day among the Flats with this huge 
 following meant a day worse than wasted; 
 foxes headed, hounds overridden, no chance 
 of handling them or snatching a decent run; 
 
 Well, it must be endured unless ! His eye 
 
 grew meditative as he sat on his horse, sucking 
 his big cigar. 
 
 In and out of the press Gay drifted on his 
 paragon, the slim, elastic mare, who was out 
 to show herself and was to be sent home be- 
 fore she was tired in case she acquired the 
 hunter's wise habit, fatal to swiftness, of 
 looking at her fences. He was searching with 
 an eagerness still strange to himself, among all 
 
 47
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 these familiar faces, a blank till the one face 
 shone. 
 
 "What's the matter?" said Lord Robert, 
 approaching on a borrowed steed. "What 
 means this haughty and far-away demeanour ? 
 Behold me mounted on charity, which we all 
 know is broken-kneed. Hullo, Rafferty, has 
 your horse settled down yet ? His back was 
 very round when we started." 
 
 "Horrible brute!" said Rafferty. "I'll let 
 you have him for a hundred." 
 
 Lord Robert ignored the offer. 
 
 "Here," he said, "comes Maria, looking 
 awfully respectable in her breeches. More 
 than usual. What is there about her to-day - 
 a moral atmosphere that makes you think of 
 a bishop performing ceremonies ?" 
 
 Gay was off like a shot. 
 
 "Oho!" said Lord Robert, and prodded 
 the man in front of him with his whip. "Stand 
 out of the light, there's a good fellow; those 
 tops of yours make me feel bilious." 
 
 The man, an old enemy, pulled round and 
 glared ; out of conceit with his yellow tops. 
 
 Gay reached his goal, where Burkinshaw, 
 whose first idea on arriving in the field was to 
 find a warm corner to stand about in, had 
 taken up his position with his back to the wind.
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 Maria, promulgating views, was in the thick 
 of the crowd; but the young cousin was keep- 
 ing as close to Burkinshaw's substantial form 
 as he, on a fidgety cob, would let her. Gay 
 was close to her before she saw him, and when 
 she looked up and found him at her side, her 
 smile was shy. 
 
 Something had happened to check her bub- 
 bling friendliness, to shut that mouth that 
 was made for laughter. An odd comparison 
 came into his head. Some time last summer 
 he had stumbled on a procession, headed by a 
 patriotic schoolmistress, of empire-ridden chil- 
 dren, their little heads full of incomprehen- 
 sible instruction, their little legs faithfully 
 trotting in the dust. And Judy's face was, in 
 its young seriousness, like that of the little one 
 who had been chosen to carry the flag. 
 
 The absurd recollection would not leave 
 him; he felt a sudden, curious tenderness. 
 He had caught up that child, so proud, and 
 tired, and anxious, tottering under an honour 
 too heavy, and lifting it flag and all to his 
 shoulder, had, to the great scandal of the 
 schoolmistress, marched on with the procession. 
 And he wanted to do that now. . . . He did 
 not know what thing had come to her . . . 
 but he felt the flag was too heavy. 
 E 49
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 So he tried to amuse her, wondering, while 
 the crowd grew thicker. 
 
 "You know everybody, don't you?" he 
 said. "All the lawless lot who come here and 
 swamp us, getting us a bad character; we're 
 a frightfully mixed assembly. But that's a 
 woman look at her well with the greatest 
 moral courage of anybody I know. She's the 
 Countess of Brockton. Do you know what she 
 did?" 
 
 "No," said Judy, gazing at her. She was 
 principally noticeable for a certain primness. 
 
 "You should," said Gay. "She was travel- 
 ling with her daughter Constance, a well- 
 brought-up girl, most proper and very helpless, 
 and a friend of hers and by some terrible 
 mistake a party of trippers were shoved, at the 
 last minute, into their carriage; very noisy 
 and rather pleasant. One of them had a 
 bottle of whisky he was half-gone already - 
 and began pressing it on the girls. Of course, 
 they refused with horror - 
 
 "Of course," said Judy. 
 
 "Lady Brockton poked her daughter and 
 whispered, 'Drink!' But Constance just sat 
 and stared with her eyes round with terror. 
 So then the monster turned to Lady Brockton, 
 leering and holding out his bottle. 'Just a 
 
 So
 
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 little nip, lady!' he said, winking at the rest, 
 and pulled out the cork - 
 
 "How awful!" said Judy, shuddering a 
 little. 
 
 "She was equal to it," said Gay. "'Thank 
 you so much,' said she, and accepted the 
 whisky bottle." 
 
 "And hurled it out of the window?" said 
 Judy, looking with admiration at the heroine. 
 
 "Tilted it up," said Gay, "and finished it, 
 every drop." 
 
 "Drank it?" said Judy gasping. 
 
 "She did. The girls nearly fainted. And 
 as for the trippers they were struck dumb 
 with admiration. They simply gazed at her 
 speechless till the train ran into a station. And 
 then Lady Brockton got down with a great deal 
 of dignity, and muttered to Constance to hold 
 her hand. She couldn't walk straight." 
 
 " But ' said Judy, struggling with her 
 
 ideas. 
 
 "She grasped the position, you see," said 
 Gay. "She saw if the whisky was left, the men 
 would drink it themselves and it would make 
 them drunker and still if she broke the bottle 
 they'd be furious with her and she thought 
 they might all be murdered, to say nothing of 
 the bad language, before she could stop the
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 train. Brave of her, wasn't it ? One of 
 these noble deeds that never get into the 
 papers. 5 * 
 
 Somehow his nonsense was bringing her 
 back to him as he liked to watch her, and he 
 was glad, though ignorant whether it had 
 been a sad or a happy shadow. He leaned 
 towards her, careless of the amused comment 
 of his world that world of infinite gossip. 
 Self-consciousness was not his fault. The 
 darling ! He would make her laugh or die. . . . 
 
 "Who is that?" asked Judy curiously. "I 
 haven't seen her before." 
 
 Gay followed her look. 
 
 A clumsy, large-limbed woman in a brown 
 habit was riding into the chattering crowd 
 that closed round her, scattering to let her 
 through. As she moved on, not troubling to 
 turn out of anybody's way, men talking deeply 
 of politics and sport looked after her, and for 
 a minute or two had to drop their subject. 
 A long way behind, quite independently, a 
 small girl comfortably astride, her gaitered 
 legs sticking out manfully as she trotted, 
 followed her on a pony. 
 
 "That is Sophia Bland," said Gay. 
 
 Maria was coming back to them, like a hen 
 cleaving the poultry-yard to guard a stolen 
 
 52
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 nest. Something in the way she fronted the 
 newcomer intimated hostility. 
 
 "So you are back?" she said, not too gra- 
 ciously. 
 
 The other woman nodded. She sat her 
 horse loosely, as if she had been thrown on, 
 and her boot swung with a spur. She was 
 not handsome, but there was charm in her 
 greenish eyes, and she had the mouth of a bad 
 angel. 
 
 "I came down last night," she said. "How 
 are you ? You look oppressed with the cares 
 of state or is it a revolution ? Oh, by the 
 way, I've borrowed some spoons and forks. 
 You don't mind, do you ? I got into the 
 cottage late and found we had forgotten the 
 plate-basket. So I had to eat with my fingers. 
 I really can't go on gnawing chickens' legs till 
 they send it, so I told Alphonse to run round 
 to you." 
 
 "Of course," said Maria hospitably, swallow- 
 ing consternation. 
 
 "The worst of foreign servants," said the 
 borrower airily, "is they will talk English. If 
 they would only stick to their own tongue 
 they'd be quite intelligible. I don't know what 
 on earth Alphonse will ask for, but he'll imagine 
 he is begging for spoons and forks." 
 
 53
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 Maria could not help looking the least little 
 bit perturbed. 
 
 "The housekeeper will give him whatever 
 he wants," she said; "but you know, Sophia, 
 he terrified her last time you were down by 
 insisting on a bonnet to make a stew." 
 
 " But the poor wretch meant something else," 
 said Sophia Bland. Her glance, too lazy to be 
 insolent, passed over Judy. "Is she staying 
 with you?" she asked, and as Judy's cousin 
 performed a backward introduction she nodded 
 condescendingly at the girl. "Run in and see 
 me any time," she said. "I am just below in 
 the village. The first little house you meet 
 tumbling into the road." 
 
 And then she turned to Gay. 
 
 "Have you seen Bill?" she asked. "Oh, 
 I wish you would give me a mount on that 
 thing. She would carry me better than you." 
 
 She rode on, calling up the child behind as 
 if it had been a little dog. 
 
 It was then that Lauder came through the 
 block in the gateway and approached, looking 
 neither to right nor left. The man at Judy's 
 bridle saw that shadow fall on her again and 
 he understood. He looked in her face, so 
 startled that she could not help answering his 
 unuttered question. 
 
 54
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "I'm engaged to him," she said in a breath, 
 as a child might trust a playmate with some 
 tremendous secret. And Gay dropped back 
 to fight himself. 
 
 Lauder took his place, claiming her openly, 
 throwing out an intangible challenge to any 
 who might dispute his right. She turned to 
 him in a flutter. 
 
 He towered above her on his horse, a great, 
 big, pawing beast, severely bitted. Strange 
 that so slight a thing as she should be strong 
 enough to lift him out of the bitterness of 
 despair. Judy felt humble and yet exalted, 
 as if she had done one good thing. 
 
 But his brows were heavy. Although he had 
 come to her side and smiled and taken posses- 
 sion, he was again looking straight before him. 
 He had scarcely a word for her. 
 
 The throng was in real motion. Hounds 
 were moving down the long furrow towards 
 the bridle gate at the bottom, and the thunder- 
 ing cavalcade surged behind. For a minute 
 the field was like a whirlpool and then it be- 
 came a river, pouring through the narrow gate. 
 A few not caring to join the crush and guess- 
 ing at their destination, made a circuit; the 
 rest fell in and pushed like sheep. 
 
 Judy, a little slow, found herself among the 
 55
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 last, far from Burkinshaw and Maria. Lauder, 
 muttering something about his unruly brute, 
 had left her. She saw him in the distance 
 thrusting his way along; and ahead of him in 
 the press a brown habit, a woman who looked 
 round and waved her hand. 
 
 "Don't go with the stream," called a voice 
 to her over the hedge. Tokenhouse was stand- 
 ing up in his gig, flicking his driving whip. 
 "They'll invest the Long Spinney so that not 
 a fly can escape. Come round by the road 
 and watch for them on the hill. They'll do 
 nothing on the Flats. Too many asses out." 
 
 She turned back obediently. 
 
 A string of carriages rattled on the stones 
 along the ill-kept road that turned sharp on 
 the left up a steep hillside. From the heights, 
 looking westward, they watched the sea of 
 riders overflowing round a spinney, heard a 
 wild holloa that sent them scattering. 
 
 "Where are the hounds?" cried Judy, with 
 her hand shadowing her eyes. 
 
 "Hounds," said Tokenhouse, "are swal- 
 lowed. You'll never see them." 
 
 The multitude was overrunning the country 
 in a confusion that was ludicrous at a distance, 
 pursuing a false alarm. And then, when the 
 spinney itself seemed deserted, a red flash 
 
 56
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 issued from it, and a string of leaping bodies, 
 flinging themselves into the fallow, turning 
 as the fox had turned to run up the furrow, 
 and gaining impetus as they ran. A man in 
 scarlet burst out of the thicket, another slipped 
 round the corner, the horn sounded, and two or 
 three skitters came scampering to join them- 
 selves to the pack. 
 
 "He's coming up," said a shepherd, standing 
 on the road fence, ducking and almost toppling 
 into the ditch. 
 
 "There's heaps of time," said Tokenhouse 
 to the girl. "Keep your horse quiet. We 
 shan't head him. He'll cross the road under 
 that split ash tree and try for Laxton's." 
 
 Up came the fox as if shot out of a catapult, 
 the hill nothing to him, as fresh as paint. His 
 mask appeared in the hedge, his brush dis- 
 appeared in the hedge beyond; a leap had 
 taken him over the road so close to them that 
 Judy started. And then hounds came tum- 
 bling through, hot on his scent, disappearing 
 likewise. 
 
 "He's in Laxton's," said Tokenhouse. 
 "Look at them bucketing up the hill." 
 
 A desperate army of stragglers, gathering 
 from all quarters, squandering their horses on 
 useless jumps, flurried by the mistake that had 
 
 57
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 scattered them on the wrong side and wasted 
 minutes, swarmed across the flat, chasing the 
 wiser regiment that, turning a deaf ear to 
 vagrant holloas, had clung to the spinney, and 
 gained a start. These were already up. They 
 came over into the road, landing one after 
 another close to Judy and Tokenhouse, plung- 
 ing into the field beyond. 
 
 "Don't follow them," said Tokenhouse. 
 "He's in the cover. Hark at hounds! . . ." 
 And truly there was an uproar in Laxton's, an 
 angry tumult dying to a whimper, and burst- 
 ing out again fitfully as the hounds scoured up 
 and down inside, got on to him, and lost him, 
 and took up his scent again. As Judy hesitated 
 she saw Lauder bound over the hedge on his 
 great beast, and keeping with him, stride for 
 stride, the woman in the brown habit. They 
 turned to the left, catching the tune in cover, 
 and clattered down the road. He had not a 
 glance to spare. 
 
 Tokenhouse was standing up in his gig 
 surveying the errant herd tilting at the fences 
 below, now more formidable for their spring 
 tidying, patched and staked, with here and 
 there a rail put in where there used to be a 
 convenient gap. Here a man lost his stirrup 
 and rolled off mysteriously, away from the 
 
 58
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 jump that had undone him; there another 
 pitched over his horse's head. And the good 
 riders came steadily on, clearing their fences, 
 galloping like clockwork, slanting up the hill. 
 
 "You had better ride on," he said to Judy. 
 "They'll turn him out." 
 
 It was drizzling. A black cloud hung over 
 the Flats, trailing on the horizon, and all the 
 distant noises were ominously clear. 
 
 Voices came up from the bottom corner 
 where the road forked and the troops met, 
 chafing at this check in a dart that had warmed 
 
 o 
 
 up their horses and made them restive. Judy, 
 timidly joining the strange crowd, found 
 people looking at her. Some other woman 
 made room for her to stand in under the 
 trees. 
 
 "Don't mind my horse," she said. "He 
 doesn't kick but his red ribbon's useful. 
 People don't crush on the top of him in the 
 gates. So you are the girl. Oh, dear me, that 
 fox is out already ! I thought we were going to 
 have a good long gossip." 
 
 "How like a woman!" put in the man 
 beside her, pressing on. 
 
 Judy was borne with the stream, carried in 
 the rush towards Whissendine, that was as 
 bewildering to her as the suddenness with 
 
 59
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 which they all whipped round on the right, 
 charging back. Burkinshaw had mounted her 
 on a safe old horse, who had a kindly memory 
 for his gates, and took her to them, humouring 
 her with a fence occasionally, but letting her 
 know who was master. It was no use tugging 
 at his mouth, no good making efforts at inde- 
 pendence. It was not surprising that she was 
 never in the same field with Lauder, that Gay 
 should fly past like lightning; that at last she 
 should find herself struggling up a slope with 
 the rain wet on her face blurring the figures 
 dipping over the horizon, and no companion 
 but a little girl on a pony. 
 
 The child looked at her solemnly, kicking 
 at her pony until he was alongside. 
 
 "I've lost Parsons," she confided. 
 
 "Oh," said Judy politely. She recognised 
 the infant as the child that had appeared at 
 the meet with Sophia Bland. She seemed to be 
 hunting independently, an impish sprite, born 
 for mischief, with her mother's greenish eyes 
 and an odd trick of ducking her head as she 
 talked, as if dodging strangers' kisses. 
 
 "Parsons," she explained in her piping 
 treble, "is responsible. He hooks me out of 
 the ditches and says, 'the-Lord-be-praised- 
 I've-got-er.' It's delightful losing him. He 
 
 60
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 snorts when he's looking for me. He swears 
 too." 
 
 "Oh, does he?" said Judy. 
 
 "Not loud," said the child, "but I know, 
 
 because he puts on the damn-look " She 
 
 paused and peered up in the girl's face, not 
 wickedly, but with meaning. "The look 
 mummy put on when somebody told her you 
 were going to marry Bill. But mummy 
 laughed. Parsons doesn't laugh. He is a 
 serious man." 
 
 The girl was startled. Involuntarily her 
 hands tightened on the reins, but her opinion- 
 ated animal took no notice. 
 
 "Bill," said the child calmly, "belongs to 
 us." 
 
 She jerked her wet locks out of her eyes, 
 and drove her pony right into the tall hedge 
 before them. Somehow or other they wrig- 
 gled through, and when Judy herself found her 
 way into the road that ran along the top they 
 had simply made a wide circle she saw pony 
 and rider, none the worse, but rather twiggy, 
 in the road too. 
 
 Tokenhouse was still posted on the hill-top 
 with his umbrella over his shoulder, as undis- 
 turbed as a rock in a troubled sea. 
 
 "Maria is looking for you!" he said. "She 
 61
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 wants to keep you under her wing, but it's 
 impossible. You look tired. Stay where 
 you are. The fox has only taken a short 
 excursion, he'll be back again in a moment. 
 Fanty, you imp, come here. What have you 
 done with your keeper?" 
 
 "Slew him with an axe," said Fanty. 
 
 She sped off suddenly. The hunt had 
 twisted once more, and a fearful hullabaloo 
 had been raised, triumph ending in disappoint- 
 ment, just beneath where they stood. 
 
 "Gone to ground in the Gorse," said 
 Tokenhouse, looking over the hedge. "Maria 
 tells me you are engaged to Lauder." 
 
 "Yes," said Judy. His expression was 
 graver, his voice kinder . . . and the child's 
 queer speech was running in her head. She 
 did not know what to make of it. Her eyes 
 must have held wistfulness. . . . 
 
 "Poor child!" said Tokenhouse. "Don't 
 be angry. I am a wreck a cripple no 
 more account than a stone image. You are 
 fond of him?" 
 
 He bent forward. The rain trickled from 
 his umbrella as he leaned it sideways. His 
 slow voice had a human note in it that fright- 
 ened her with its kindness. 
 
 "I I don't know," she said. 
 62
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 And then, scarlet, she recovered herself, as 
 shocked as if she had spoken treason. 
 
 "Oh, yes, yes, yes!" she cried hotly, not 
 stopping to consider that this odd acquaintance 
 had no claim on her confidence. 
 
 Up from below rose a new clamour. A fox 
 had made an all but invisible passage slap 
 through the middle of the wandering bands 
 of people lunching and changing horses. A 
 hoarse shout awoke as he darted up the hill, 
 and the hounds came screaming after him. 
 Right over the top he glanced, crossing the 
 road a bit higher and keeping straight on. 
 
 "A fresh fox," said Tokenhouse, "and a 
 good 'un. There he goes, over the brook ! No 
 more ringing this time; he's clear away." 
 
 Judy lost herself in the flood of riders pour- 
 ing over the hill. Her horse, stirred to emula- 
 tion, and going as he liked, carried her for a 
 while famously. He had taken it into his head 
 to gallop, and took his fences side by side with 
 the flying squadron, but with a more elderly 
 precision. 
 
 It was a dizzy ride, and drove out of her 
 mind all other things while it lasted. Nothing 
 seemed to matter but just to keep her place, 
 to miss none of the joy of this swinging race. 
 On all sides others were coming up, overtaking 
 
 63
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 her, passing her with an encouraging shout; 
 and she laughed back to them, gripping the 
 reins in her two hands, forgetting in her ex- 
 citement that nervous little clutch at the saddle 
 that betrayed the novice, as her horse rose with 
 her into space. 
 
 She would have liked Lauder to see her, to 
 call to her as he went tearing past, but the 
 rate he was going was terrific; he was out of 
 sight in a moment. 
 
 Away in front hounds were swooping to the 
 left, flickering over the railway line in danger- 
 ous proximity to a puff of smoke, and hurling 
 themselves into a stiffer, more broken country. 
 
 The girl's horse was dropping back. She 
 turned him into the road that lay almost par- 
 allel with the line they were running and tried 
 to keep up; but soon she lost sight of them 
 altogether. One by one people fell out and 
 came slowly back. Two or three women, 
 splashed and dirty, stopped to speak to her. 
 
 "Maria was asking for you," said one of 
 them. "I said if we overtook you we'd ride 
 home together. She was afraid you would 
 think it your duty to follow too far. It's no 
 good going on. They've left Gunby Gorse, 
 and they'll finish at the end of the world. We 
 shan't get in before dark ourselves." 
 
 64
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 The girl was glad of company, thinking 
 nervously of the long journey along an un- 
 familiar way beset with cross-roads that she 
 would have found it hard to puzzle out alone. 
 Only why did they look at her with such a 
 queer expression, a kind of comical sympathy ? 
 
 They had ridden on a good way before she 
 was fully conscious of it. The dusk was creep- 
 ing up, and the horses had dropped from their 
 dispirited homeward trot to a walk as they 
 climbed a hill. And the woman on Judy's left 
 spoke suddenly to the other. 
 
 "She's too young, Kate." 
 
 "Much too young." 
 
 "Am 7 too young?" asked Judy. 
 
 The first woman laughed. She had a plain, 
 weather-beaten face and the big mouth that 
 goes with abruptness. The other one was sal- 
 low, and her eyes were very tired. 
 
 "Bill Lauder, my child, is a dangerous ex- 
 periment for a baby. Surely Maria could have 
 found some hard-fisted woman - ! Don't be 
 offended. I am talking to myself." 
 
 The other woman cut in; her voice was 
 smoother. 
 
 "You mustn't mind Augusta. She doesn't 
 mean to hurt your feelings. She has no 
 manners." 
 
 F 65
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "I am always sorry for girls," said Augusta. 
 "Hold up, mare! They are at the mercy of 
 anybody who likes to push them over. In the 
 Middle Ages, now, you could put a man to the 
 proof." 
 
 Judy felt somehow as if she were a doll, a 
 puppet. 
 
 "An extravagant custom," said the woman on 
 her other side. "Half the men were swallowed 
 by dragons or spitted on lances." 
 
 "And a good riddance," snapped Augusta, 
 smacking her mare that stumbled. 
 
 "/," said the sallow woman, "always tell girls 
 to cross a street in London. If the man shoots 
 ahead, leaving you to dive after him if he 
 claws at you, alarming you, saying you'll get 
 run over don't marry him for your life ! But 
 if he takes you over quietly, not frightening nor 
 forgetting you, whatever the turmoil, and you're 
 conscious of nothing but in moments his com- 
 fortable touch on your arm - 
 
 Her voice failed and she hid its unsteadiness 
 with a laugh. "I am qualified to talk," she 
 said, "as one of Maria's blunders. I tried 
 to mend her mistake later on for myself, and 
 so she can't be civil to me, though Heaven 
 knows - - ! I say, Augusta, it's too bad to let 
 the child walk into this blindfolded." 
 
 06
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "She thinks we are a pair of evil prophets," 
 said the other woman, and leaning over caught 
 the girl's hand in hers and squeezed it, swing- 
 ing it to and fro. "My dear, we're only 
 savage because we don't think Bill Lauder 
 deserves his luck. Don't be affronted with us. 
 We can't help talking to you as if you were a 
 kitten. . . . And beware of Sophia Bland!" 
 
 She put her horse into a trot, stopping 
 Augusta with a warning shake of her head, 
 and the three of them travelled on with no 
 more dangerous discussion. And when they 
 had left Judy at her own gate, they said good 
 night to her hastily, as if they were ashamed. 
 
 There was something wrong. 
 
 The girl ran upstairs and changed quickly, 
 hurrying down to watch for Maria. 
 
 It was still vague to her, glimmering, un- 
 certain. The restlessness in Lauder's manner 
 when he had come to her and so soon left 
 her at the meet ; the queer anxiety in Maria's ; 
 Tokenhouse's question. All were things little 
 in themselves, not worth brooding over, capable 
 of interpretation but culminating in the blunt- 
 ness of these two women who had always been 
 kind to her. 
 
 She sighed a little, feeling friendless. Who 
 67
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 would tell her the truth, explain to her, stop 
 the pain that was not heartache, but hurt be- 
 wilderment ? Her lip quivered and she flung 
 back her head, fighting her tears, fingering the 
 pearls at her throat. . . . 
 
 She heard the horses now, heard Maria and 
 Burkinshaw tramping in the back way, the 
 nearest way from the stables, all mud and 
 mire. She ran down the hall to meet them. 
 
 "Oh, there you are," said Maria. "Don't 
 come near me. I can't open my mouth till 
 I've scrubbed." 
 
 She was making for the stairs, but halted. 
 
 "I am ashamed," she said, "of the way I 
 looked after you. But I knew you would be 
 all right. I asked so many people - 
 
 Burkinshaw grunted heavily in the back- 
 ground. 
 
 "Beginning with Bill Lauder," he said. 
 "How many times did you stop your con- 
 science by shrieking to him it was his business ?" 
 
 "As many times as I got within earshot," 
 said Maria; "but Judy understands. She 
 knows a man can't dangle round her when 
 hounds are running." 
 
 She departed, but her toilet was never a 
 lengthy one; a bath, a snatching at some 
 garment, and a twisting up of her hair. In 
 
 68
 
 t. THE STRAW 
 
 a few minutes she came down again, clean but 
 rampant. 
 
 "That foreign wretch of Sophia's !" she said. 
 "The villain has been over and carried off 
 to-night's fish and a tweed skirt, and heaven 
 knows what else." 
 
 Judy, alone by the fire, rose and came to her. 
 She must speak now. She must make Maria 
 tell her. . . . 
 
 "The servants would give him their heads, 
 if he asked them in broken English ! " com- 
 plained Maria. "It's too bad of her." 
 
 "I want to know," said Judy, all her doubts 
 crystallising in one swift question. Had she 
 not been sitting forming it on her lips for a 
 long, long while, looking into the fire ? - "What 
 is between her and Major Lauder." 
 
 The suddenness of the attack had Maria off 
 her guard. 
 
 "What?" she said bitterly, before she could 
 check herself. "Why, the woman has been his 
 evil genius !" 
 
 "Oh," said the girl, answered. 
 
 "Yes," pursued Maria quite recklessly. "She 
 probably intends to marry him, now she has 
 divorced her husband. But it's too late, thank 
 goodness. Poor Bill is out of her clutches 
 saved." 
 
 69
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 There was a vindictive ring in her thank- 
 fulness that Judy could not miss. Was she 
 then a tool, the instrument of Maria's private 
 vengeances, and not as she had imagined a 
 man's salvation ? She saw herself with horror 
 ignorantly playing the wicked part of robbing 
 another woman. If she had been tricked, 
 another had been betrayed. And she forgot, 
 painting in her haste this black action, that 
 it was not to Maria's machinations she had 
 succumbed, but to the tremendous earnest, 
 the desperate face, of the man himself. 
 
 "Heavens! I am all unhooked," said Maria 
 sharply; "but when Parker told me of that 
 man's depredations I couldn't contain my- 
 self." 
 
 She returned incontinently to the maid out 
 of whose hands she had bounced. And the 
 hall was deserted. 
 
 The girl's heart was hot, and she was a thing 
 of impulse. One thought came to her and 
 thrilled her. She would go to the woman she 
 had injured. 
 
 "Run in any time," Sophia Bland had 
 said to her, with careless hospitality. And it 
 was so near; a scant half-mile of semi-dark- 
 ness lay between her and understanding. Judy 
 stood up, possessed with courage, and gave 
 
 70
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 herself no time to turn coward, as women 
 should not, who would stand by each other. 
 
 Sophia Bland lay along the sofa that stuffed 
 half her sitting-room; a lazy woman with 
 half-shut eyes. 
 
 She had borrowed her house, as she borrowed 
 all she wanted; a convenient habit that had 
 come down to her from her ancestors, famous 
 on the Border and in ballads for raiding their 
 neighbours' cattle. Enemies said that she had 
 never paid for anything in her life. It was a 
 quaint house, so small that all you could do 
 when you got inside was to tumble into a 
 chair, but the chairs were so comfortable that 
 you had never a wish to rise. She only kept 
 foreign servants, because anything that was 
 said was audible all over the house. An inter- 
 mittent chattering of French and Italian in 
 the back premises did not disturb her more 
 than the unintelligible chirping of cage-birds. 
 
 She was expecting a visitor. 
 
 He came in, so familiar with the house that 
 there was no occasion for Alphonse to inter- 
 rupt his chatter and let him in. Knowing 
 where he would find her, he strode thither, 
 stumbling over the rug in the passage.
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 She did not turn her head; her hand clenched 
 and unclenched, but her voice was drawling, 
 betraying nothing but amusement. 
 
 "If you live to be a hundred, you'll always 
 fall over that rug," she called. 
 
 "And you'll always let it lie about to trip me 
 up," said Lauder. 
 
 "Because I should miss your stumble, and 
 your swear, and the way you burst into my 
 room," she said. 
 
 He had shut the door and walked to the 
 fireplace, standing looking down at her. His 
 manner was embarrassed. 
 
 "Well?" she said at last, lifting her eyes 
 to his. 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't fill this room with 
 peacocks' feathers." 
 
 "That was always a quarrel, wasn't it?" 
 she said. "Do you remember, Bill, when you 
 first said you couldn't bear them ? It was in 
 somebody else's house. . . . And the next 
 time you came I had this room stuffed with 
 them as it is. Do you remember standing in 
 the doorway quite pale with superstition, re- 
 fusing to set foot in it till I gave you leave 
 to burn them ? But you couldn't keep away. 
 Bill- 
 
 She paused, and looked at him. 
 72
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "If you like," she said, "I'll give in. It was 
 a stupid trick to tease you, and you've always 
 hated the things. I'll let you gather them up 
 and take them into the garden and burn them 
 all to-night." 
 
 "It's hardly worth while," he said. 
 
 Neither spoke for a minute. 
 
 "Well?" she said again, in the same mock- 
 ing, expectant tone. 
 
 "I didn't stay to the end," he said. "Not 
 much later than you did. I wanted to see you, 
 Sophia." 
 
 "Alphonse heard you come in. He'll know 
 you are dining with me," she said. "Sit down, 
 Bill. Don't look like a criminal in the dock." 
 
 "You came back here sooner than you ex- 
 pected," he said stupidly. 
 
 " Perhaps," she said. " I heard I was wanted. 
 The world's so kind." 
 
 "Damned interfering," said Lauder, and 
 then, "Sophia - 
 
 She laughed. It seemed that after all he 
 was dumb. She was not going to help him; 
 no, though she saw him desperately trying 
 to say what between these two could hardly 
 bear to be said. She lay back among her 
 cushions watching him, his darkening brows, 
 his impatient hand pulling at his moustache. . . . 
 
 73
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "Did you hear anything out hunting?" he 
 said at last. 
 
 "I heard," she said, "a ridiculous rumour, 
 too extravagant to repeat." 
 
 "Well," he said, "it was true." 
 
 She clasped her hands round her knees, 
 smiling into his eyes. 
 
 "You don't know what it was," she said, 
 "or you wouldn't say that. It wasn't that 
 you are ruined, it wasn't that you'd been turned 
 out of your clubs, warned off the Turf it was 
 a wilder tale. They said you were engaged to 
 marry some little fool." 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 The house was quite still. Its kitchen chat- 
 ter had been suddenly quieted. Man and 
 woman, they faced each other. 
 
 "Bill," she said, "it's impossible. Don't 
 talk madness." 
 
 "You had to know," he muttered. "It's 
 come to the worst, Sophia. You had to 
 know." 
 
 "And so," she said, "you allowed the public 
 to break it gently ?" 
 
 A dull red mounted to his brow; he winced 
 at her tone, but his own was dogged. 
 
 "I'd have come straight to you," he said. 
 "I didn't know you were here till I saw you; 
 
 74
 
 THE STRAW 
 and then with all their cursed tongues wag- 
 
 ging - 
 
 "You thought I might be too melodramatic. 
 
 You thought you'd rather have it out quietly 
 by ourselves ? " 
 
 Lauder was not subtle. He missed the warn- 
 ing shake in her voice. 
 
 "I'm glad you are sensible," he said. "I'm 
 infernally glad, Sophia. It makes a man feel 
 less of a brute, you know. It was that or 
 ruin." 
 
 "What is the person like?" said Sophia 
 smoothly. 
 
 "Oh," he said vaguely, "she's quite harm- 
 less." 
 
 "And I am to whistle for a husband?" 
 she said, in the same purring tones. "Why 
 did you let me divorce Sandy ? He was like 
 an umbrella, an awkward thing to carry about 
 with you, but useful to keep in a corner and 
 hold over your hat in the rain." 
 
 "If things hadn't gone so badly," said the 
 man, "we might- But we could never 
 
 have married. It would have been ruin, the 
 blackest ruin. It couldn't be done." 
 
 "Oh, don't apologise," she said. She rose 
 to her feet, flinging ofF the mildness that had 
 served her to disarm the sullen temper he had 
 
 75
 
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 relied on to defend him against her tears, and 
 at last letting her face betray her. "Do you 
 think I can't guess that this is Maria's doing ? 
 Will nothing teach that woman ! It's her plot 
 to get you out of my dangerous hands." 
 
 She came to him, but not quite close, out of 
 his reach. 
 
 "And so," she said, "you desert me ?" 
 
 He tried to take her hands, but she put them 
 behind her back. 
 
 "No," he said. "By God, no, Sophia! 
 
 You're the only woman ! What is this 
 
 to us ?" 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "Was that in your mind ?" she said. "You 
 thought I'd forgive you; cry a little and rage 
 a little, and then forgive you ? That we'd go 
 on running our horses together people are 
 so charitable, who would care ? and we're 
 neither of us particular about the world's 
 opinion. You took that for granted ?" 
 
 "You're hitting too hard," he said. His 
 voice was hoarse. "We've always been 
 pals 
 
 "Yes," she said, "and you throw me over; 
 you make me a laughing-stock." 
 
 He moved then as if he would have liked to 
 hush her bitterness in his arms, but dared not, 
 
 76
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 afraid of himself. Sophia came nearer still 
 and laid her hand on his arm. 
 
 "I might forgive you/' she said. "I might 
 behave like a woman and a fool if I were as 
 fond of you, Bill, as you are of me." 
 
 He had just strength to shake off that hand, 
 but he could not shake off her spell with 
 it. 
 
 "You don't know what you are doing," he 
 said, breathing hard. "Youdon't know how 
 deep I am. It's not ordinary want of money; 
 it's worse. Think of all the straits a man can 
 be driven to, all the dangerous tricks that 
 come easy in desperation; and don't tempt 
 a poor devil when you can't even then under- 
 stand what's hanging over him." 
 
 "I don't care," she said. "You can't do 
 without me. We're too like each other. 
 If you lose me you lose half yourself. Look 
 at me." 
 
 Unwillingly he submitted. 
 
 "It's all or nothing," she said. "A few 
 ugly secrets whitewashed, a few debts paid 
 and a harmless idiot everlastingly in your way 
 to remind you how you snatched at her money 
 ... or life with me. Bill, nothing on earth 
 matters to you but me. You'll go all to pieces 
 without the one woman who understands you. 
 
 77
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 It's for your sake as well as mine that I will 
 not let you go." 
 
 He had underrated his weakness. A man 
 could not be stronger than himself. The 
 sordid barriers he had set up went down before 
 her. And she was sure of him; she held him; 
 she lifted her smiling mouth. 
 
 "We'll be paupers, adventurers, wanderers 
 you and I," she said in a whisper. 
 
 "All right," he said, as reckless as she; "kiss 
 me." 
 
 In the silence chirped a shrill, childish 
 voice. There was a draught in the passage 
 steps. 
 
 " D'you want mummy ? Have you come 
 to borrow Bill ? He is here, but you can't have 
 him." And then, confidentially, but no less 
 shrilly, "I was playing at two frogs. The 
 pillow is put to bed and it sleeps like me. It's 
 so agreeable in the dark. You can't see that 
 you aren't really things; and it's most myste- 
 rious, hopping." 
 
 "That imp of mine !" laughed the woman. 
 
 They heard Alphonse running up the passage 
 exclaiming, ushering a stranger not one of 
 Sophia's intimates who would have come 
 right in into the adjoining room. They 
 
 78
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 heard a young voice, not a man's voice, ex- 
 plaining. 
 
 "Damnation!" said Lauder. 
 
 The woman who had won him back saw his 
 face as he loosed his arms. 
 
 She turned away, took three short steps, 
 and paused, glancing back at him with her 
 hand at the door. 
 
 "Poor Bill," she said; "it's not worth it, 
 is it ? I'll see you through." 
 
 She caught up her trailing skirts on her arm. 
 Already she had her idea ; her voice was strained 
 but low, although her eyes were desperately 
 scornful. Outside the hush was broken by a 
 pattering in the distance, coming nearer a 
 tired horse passing up the village. 
 
 "So this is the harmless person," she 
 mocked. "And she has come here to find 
 you. Never mind, Bill, you shan't be com- 
 promised. Alphonse," - he was grimacing by 
 the stairs, and she spoke to him fast in French - 
 "run up to Lucie and tell her to slip on one of 
 my tea-gowns and hurry down here. Tell 
 her to make loud conversation in this room 
 with Major Lauder. She's the Comtesse de 
 -Charny; she dines with us." 
 
 And she ran out into the road. 
 79
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 It was not likely to trouble Sophia that the 
 belated sportsman she intercepted was an 
 unknown. He had a red coat on, and looked 
 like a gentleman; he would do. She stopped 
 him and took him captive. Tokenhouse, driv- 
 ing through the village in his gig on his way to 
 Melton, was also seized. 
 
 "Come along in," she said; "I want you." 
 
 "What is the matter?" he asked, looking 
 from her to the startled countenance of the 
 stranger who, thunderstruck but obedient, was 
 dismounting. "Have you turned highway- 
 man?" 
 
 "I'll tell you afterwards," she said. "Mr. 
 ... I don't know your name, you know. 
 Duncan, is it ? Oh, very well, Mr. Duncan, 
 if you'll be so good as to take your horse through 
 that gate and shout, my man will look after 
 him and they'll put up your animal, Token- 
 house." 
 
 " I'm going over to dine with Lord Robert," 
 said Tokenhouse; but Sophia took no 
 notice. 
 
 "Look after my prisoner," she said. "I 
 don't know who he is; Providence brought 
 him to me and I took him. I just ran out and 
 told him it was a bet and appealed to his 
 sporting instincts; and I'm doing the same 
 
 80
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 to you. What luck you passed ! Turn him 
 over to Alphonse and let him make a toilet 
 and take him into the back sitting-room and 
 talk, all of you, till I come." 
 
 She left them standing in the road, and 
 Tokenhouse turned to her other victim who 
 was holding on to his horse, blank with be- 
 wilderment. 
 
 "I say, you know " he began. 
 
 "I'm afraid," said Tokenhouse gravely, 
 "we must do as Lady Sophia tells us." 
 
 "Oh, certainly," said the other helplessly; 
 and then he brightened. "Is she Lady Sophia 
 Bland ? I've heard of her. Oh, of course ! 
 But it was a bit of a startler. I don't know 
 my way about, and this old horse . . . we've 
 been trying for hours to make our way back 
 to Melton. Of course, I'll do it, if it's a 
 bet." 
 
 Sophia passed swiftly into the house and con- 
 fronted the enemy. 
 
 The girl was not sitting; she stayed like a 
 frightened bird in the farthest corner of the 
 room. Her lips were pale and her eyes be- 
 seeching. She could not utter what she had 
 come to say. And Sophia felt with an odd 
 G 81
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 pique that her generalship was wasted. Here 
 was no vulgar suspicion to circumvent. She 
 came forward, however, playing the part she 
 had undertaken with an air of middle-aged 
 good-nature. 
 
 "My dear," she said, stretching out her 
 hands, "is anything the matter? You look 
 so tragic." 
 
 It was impossible to ask this woman, secure 
 in her attitude of amused encouragement, the 
 question that had answered itself for Judy 
 when she had come here doubting and found 
 that Lauder was in the house. She had thought 
 then that it must be true, had waited for Sophia 
 full of remorse and pity. But it was no hag- 
 gard, forsaken woman whose reproaches she 
 had to bear. She was ashamed. 
 
 "I came to you," she said brokenly, "be- 
 cause . . . oh, I don't know how to tell you, 
 Lady Sophia. Laugh at me; please laugh at 
 me ! I didn't want to hurt anybody and 
 they told me that Major Lauder - 
 
 "My good girl," said Sophia, "you don't 
 mean to say you're jealous ? How frightfully 
 amusing ! Of course, I know all about it. 
 I know you are engaged to Bill." 
 
 There was talking in the next room in- 
 cessant talking; but Sophia was listening to 
 
 82
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 hear men's voices striking into the untiring 
 treble. How slow they were. 
 
 "I suppose," she said, "some ill-natured 
 wretches have been making mischief. You 
 shouldn't be so credulous; you should 
 have asked Maria. She would have calmed 
 your scruples. Did you come rushing over 
 here to confront your hated rival?" 
 
 Hejr tone of easy banter stained Judy's cheeks 
 with scarlet. 
 
 "I came," she said faintly, "to tell you I 
 would I would give him up to you." 
 
 Sophia Bland drew in her breath sharply, but 
 she was smiling all the time. 
 
 "Indeed?" she said. "How very magnani- 
 mous. But I don't think Bill would like it. 
 My dear how young you are ! " 
 
 Men were speaking now in the inner room, 
 their voices mingling with -the voluble foreign 
 one; and Lauder was talking with them. 
 The two distinguished his deeper notes, and 
 the girl started. 
 
 Sophia caught her suddenly by the arm. 
 
 "Don't talk of giving him up," she said. 
 "You don't know what it means to him. Marry 
 him, marry him, I tell you! You can't let 
 any schoolgirlish romancing interfere. What 
 does it matter what people say ? They are all 
 
 83
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 liars. ... If you don't marry him he'll put 
 a bullet through his head." 
 
 The girl shuddered, staring at her, afraid of 
 her in that minute of terrible seriousness. 
 And then Sophia dismissed tragedy with a 
 disdainful flourish of her hands. 
 
 "There," she said, "forgive me. We 
 mustn't rant, either of us. But poor Bill is a 
 friend of mine, and I stick to my friends. 
 One can do that without sentiment, do you 
 know ? He is here to-night. I've two or 
 three people dining with me. We'll pretend I 
 asked you as a surprise for him, and I'll send 
 a message up to Maria and he shall take you 
 home after dinner. You silly girl, did you 
 run all the way here in such little slippers?" 
 
 It was a queer dinner. 
 
 Lauder was in a boisterous humour that 
 Judy had not known in him; but that did not 
 seem so strange to Sophia, who, falling into 
 his mood, was gay. He could not bear silence, 
 but talked loudly and his glass was always 
 empty. The foreign countess carried out her 
 task with aplomb, fine in Sophia's purple, 
 chattering broken English to a bedazzled young 
 man whose brain was confused by this mar- 
 vellous wind-up to his day's hunting in 
 
 84
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 Leicestershire, and who sat bewitched, with 
 his pale straw-coloured hair brushed wet on his 
 forehead, wearing his hunting coat and a 
 skimpy pair of Alphonse's trousers, and looking 
 for all the world like a rabbit in a trance. 
 
 "Oblige me with an explanation," said 
 Tokenhouse later on. 
 
 Sophia came from the door; she had shut it 
 upon Judy's penitent face, upturned and wist- 
 ful, as she went away with Lauder. 
 
 "You're all the world's confidant, Token- 
 house," she said. 
 
 He followed her back into the sitting-room, 
 with its walls decorated with peacocks' feathers, 
 gleaming bizarre and ominous everywhere. 
 With the privileged closeness of an old 
 acquaintance he watched her face as she 
 flung herself on the sofa and collapsed into 
 shrieking mirth. The other guest had been 
 sent on to his journey's end in Tokenhouse's 
 gig, leaving his exhausted hireling; and the 
 foreign lady had returned to her own 
 shape. 
 
 "I am curious," repeated Tokenhouse drily, 
 rolling a cigarette. "I recognised Madame 
 Lucie." 
 
 85
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "It's all simple," said Sophia. She quieted 
 herself with an effort. "Do justice to my 
 talents ! That child had heard there was 
 something between Bill and me. She burst 
 into the house. Did you ever hear of any- 
 thing so frantic ? I had to surround him 
 with chaperons in a minute." 
 
 "I wonder," said Tokenhouse slowly, "why 
 you let it go on." 
 
 "Wonderful, isn't it?" she repeated. "And 
 I've only to lift my finger - 
 
 She was silent for a little while, meeting his 
 scrutiny without subterfuge, indifferent to his 
 judgment. 
 
 "I know that," he said. 
 
 She was still struggling against her laughter. 
 All that was left of it now was like a sob in 
 her throat. 
 
 "You saw me abdicate," she said. "You're 
 my witness. . . . It's freezing, but she will 
 be warm. I wrapped her up in a cloak of 
 mine. What more could any woman do?" 
 
 Tokenhouse smoked on quietly; his ab- 
 stracted manner, that seemed to take note of 
 nothing, begat confidences, and had before to- 
 night quenched hysterics. 
 
 "Do you think," he inquired impartially, 
 "that it was fair to her?" 
 
 86
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "Oh," said Sophia bitterly, "she is madly 
 in love with him." 
 
 "Perhaps," said Tokenhouse. There was 
 doubt and an odd shadow on his face. "But 
 from what I used to know of Lauder he is not 
 the man to be kind to a woman who has not 
 got him under her heel." 
 
 "And do you imagine," said Sophia con- 
 temptuously, "that that matters to any 
 woman ?" 
 
 "Unkindness ?" 
 
 "We live upon it; it's the breath of 
 Iffe!" 
 
 So he was not sorry for her. She was vaguely 
 jealous although she had not asked for his pity. 
 It was not she, but the insignificant item in the 
 play, the cipher that neither she nor Lauder had 
 taken seriously into account, that had awakened 
 the looker-on's philosophic compassion. That 
 was strange. 
 
 "You are looking very oddly at me, Token- 
 house," she complained. 
 
 "Sorry," he said; "I could not help it. 
 Really, Sophia, I did not know you were so 
 remorseless." 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "Would you have had me take him back 
 at her hands?" she said. "She came you 
 
 87
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 pity her? A quixotic little fool who would 
 throw herself into the fire for strangers." 
 
 Suddenly she turned away her face, flinging 
 out one hand to him, clenching the other hard. 
 
 "Go away," she said. "For God's sake, go 
 away, Tokenhouse. I am going to cry." 
 
 88
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 "TTERE I stand under the sign post," said 
 
 J. JL Lord Robert, "calculating how many 
 of us are dead." 
 
 "As far as I can see," said Rafferty, "we 
 are the same old crew." 
 
 "Man, you are seeing ghosts. I have been 
 attending funerals all the summer." 
 
 "Don't be so infernally dismal," said Raf- 
 ferty, who had a liver and felt jumpy in the 
 murky November atmosphere to which, arriv- 
 ing from abroad, he had not yet become ac- 
 climatised. 
 
 "If you feel like that," said Lord Robert 
 with a twinkle, "ride that wall-eyed camel of 
 yours into the middle of them and rake up old 
 associations. Mind you ask Crocker how his 
 wife is, and Lady Brockton if her husband's 
 out." 
 
 "Dead?" said RafFerty, in an awed under- 
 tone. 
 
 "No; changed hands." 
 89
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 He screwed his head round to stare at some- 
 body in the distance. 
 
 Rafferty had grown smugger, less enter- 
 prising, more like a bachelor uncle; he would 
 be sworn he was as bald as a billiard ball under 
 that too large hat. That a man could alter so 
 in one destructive summer ! It was appalling. 
 
 People had not yet settled down, although 
 they had been drifting back all through the 
 cubbing season. Those who had arrived were 
 wandering backwards and forwards exchang- 
 ing experiences, taking up the old intimacies 
 where they had been interrupted. There had 
 been the usual General Post in houses, and it 
 was necessary before all things to make in- 
 quiries or run the risks attendant on turning 
 up uninvited in the house of your enemy, that 
 had last year been the familiar hearth of a 
 friend. It was easy to guess at the state of a 
 man's finances when he told you that he had 
 let the Hall and turned into the Vicarage, or 
 announced that he had got an American at his 
 place. 
 
 Sometimes the luck was the other way not 
 so often and those who had spent last winter 
 crowded into a cottage were able to do without 
 the usurper and expand into the home 6f their 
 ancestors for a season. 
 
 90
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 Here and there men were taking stock of 
 each others' horses, sometimes charitably en- 
 lightening a purchaser upon the bad points of 
 one with whom they had in the past been too 
 well acquainted, or jealously admiring another 
 that had slipped through their fingers; one, 
 perhaps, that had come on amazingly since 
 they had parted with him in the spring. 
 Occasionally their interested inspection was 
 dashed by a twinge of regret. There is no 
 sight more pathetic than the wistful look of a 
 hunter who knows his business and has passed 
 into bad hands. 
 
 Lord Robert perceived that the man in the 
 distance was the person he took him for, and 
 no impertinent stranger in his likeness, and 
 hailed him gladly. 
 
 " Let's have a look at you," he said. " You 
 have got all your arms and legs, and you 
 haven't grown a beard. They may say what 
 they please, but the joy of meeting familiar 
 faces is a doubtful joy. Unless you keep your 
 eye on a man all the summer he's apt to be 
 unrecognisable when you meet him at Kirby 
 Gate." 
 
 " You are the same," said Gay, making room 
 for a lady to pass, and betraying by his start 
 
 91
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 as his hand went hastily to his hat, that he had 
 been thrown out by the new colour of her 
 hair. 
 
 "Outwardly," said Lord Robert. "Time 
 writes nothing on my cast-iron cheek, though 
 I've been chased by a widow over two con- 
 tinents. Tell me the worst about yourself. 
 Married ?" 
 
 "Oh, Lord, no," said Gay. 
 
 "I congratulate you," said Lord Robert, 
 wringing his hand. "I know ef six poor 
 devils - - ! As I say, I nearly made one of 
 them myself. Shouldn't have shown my face 
 here again if I had gone under. Two things 
 put me off: the ceremony and the lady. If 
 you could take chloroform and get it merci- 
 fully over there would only be one objection. 
 Have you seen that little thing girl with a 
 gun factory who married Lauder?" 
 
 "No," said Gay. 
 
 His horse shifted, perhaps obeying some un- 
 conscious motion in his rider. And there was 
 that in his tone that attracted Lord Robert's 
 notice. 
 
 "She's down here," he said. "They have 
 taken Burkinshaw's house for the season. 
 They are moving to Somerby. That was one 
 of Maria's mistakes." 
 
 92
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 Gay was looking straight before him. He 
 spoke casually, but Lord Robert was not 
 deceived. 
 
 "A mistake ?" he said. 
 
 "Yes," he said. "Maria took it into her 
 head that nobody could sweep the chimneys; 
 they meandered too much, had kinks in them. 
 She was sure there were hidden stores of soot 
 all over the house, and it would go on fire and 
 they would be burnt in their beds - 
 
 "I thought," said Gay, "you were talking 
 about that marriage." 
 
 Lord Robert looked innocent. 
 
 "Was I?" he said. "Oh, that is a worse 
 mistake than the chimneys. I ran across them 
 once or twice in the summer. He bullies her. 
 It's his nature. He'll never forgive her for 
 her money. At least that is my opinion." 
 
 "The brute!" said Gay. 
 
 "Oh," said Lord Robert. "He's not the 
 kind to be decent to anybody who doesn't 
 stand up to him. What, are they putting 
 hounds in the Pastures after we've been hang- 
 ing round it for half an hour ?" 
 
 He passed on, turning round for a last word. 
 
 "Oh, Gay, if you see Sophia Bland with a 
 millionaire in tow you'll know him, he is so 
 ugly take an opportunity of urging him to be 
 
 93
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 careful. He's on that mild old Roman-nosed 
 bay of Houston's bought him at Tatter- 
 sail's; and he's been told it's a perfect de- 
 mon." 
 
 But his kind recommendation was unheard. 
 
 Gay had not thought himself such an abso- 
 lute fool. 
 
 True, he had often looked over his fields 
 at the house that had passed from Burkin- 
 shaw's occupation into Lauder's. There was 
 no reason he should not look. He tried to con- 
 vince himself that one long, dull summer had 
 laid the ghost of his brief incursion into ro- 
 mance. What was the matter with him ? 
 
 He had not even seen her yet; not seen her 
 since she married. Perhaps she had forgotten 
 his face. 
 
 He remembered how she used to look at 
 strangers. She had not acquired that formi- 
 dable blankness that other women assumed. 
 There was something of the child in her expec- 
 tation ; as if she were only wanting encourage- 
 ment to break into a smile at all the world. 
 Gay felt he could just bear that she should look 
 at him like that. 
 
 Sophia Bland was coming up the road with 
 a man in attendance, joining the little group 
 at the cross-roads. The horse she was riding 
 
 94
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 had not carried a habit before, and kept glanc- 
 ing round at her in not altogether pleased 
 astonishment. The man who seemed to be- 
 long to her was a stout man with a chalky 
 face, who was absorbed in keeping a sharp 
 look-out for vagaries on the part of his steed, 
 now behaving like a lamb. Sophia drew in 
 beside Gay. Her eyes were restless. 
 
 "What are they doing?" she said. "Are 
 they going to find ? Is it cub-hunting, or 
 what?" 
 
 "I believe we are serious," said Gay, "but 
 you know, once we get hung up in Ashby 
 Pastures !" 
 
 Parties were wandering up and down. There 
 was a whimper in the cover; hounds were 
 ranging hopefully in the blind undergrowth. 
 But nobody expected the luck of an imme- 
 diate start. 
 
 "Let's move on into the field," said Sophia. 
 The man with her demurred. 
 
 "There is a crowd in there," he said. "I 
 don't like to take this horse among them. It's 
 the first time I've had him out, and I'm told 
 he's vicious." 
 
 "He doesn't look it," said Gay. 
 
 "I didn't know of it before," said his owner; 
 "but if you examine him you see he has a 
 
 95
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 treacherous eye. More than one man has 
 come up and warned me since I came out." 
 
 A smothered chuckle in the background ex- 
 plained matters to Gay. 
 
 "Send him home," said Sophia impa- 
 tiently. 
 
 "Not before I conquer him," said the mill- 
 ionaire. Gay was instantly reminded of a 
 photograph in a newspaper, representing this 
 man as a giant controlling the destinies of 
 a continent, ruling thousands with a rod of 
 iron. The colossal mind was at work, antici- 
 pating a struggle on a minor scale. He 
 laughed. 
 
 And then he knew by his leaping pulses who 
 it was that was coming. She at last. . . . 
 
 Sophia had changed her mind. She was 
 not riding on. She, too, was watching the 
 approaching figures. At the cross-roads you 
 could see all comers, sweep the country with 
 its running lines of hedges, here and there 
 red as rust, and the rain-clouds trailing across 
 like smoke. 
 
 She said a word to her neighbour and reined 
 in close to him, parading their intimacy. As 
 Lauder and his wife passed by she bent and 
 again said a word to her neighbour. . . . The 
 
 96
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 man, who had slackened instinctively, rode on, 
 and his brow was sullen. 
 
 Gay never saw him. His gaze was riveted on 
 the one face, wondering. Was this Judy ? 
 
 All the laughter, all the gracious impulsiveness 
 was gone from her face. It was still sweet, but 
 with an unhappy sweetness. What had the man 
 done to her ? 
 
 Without knowing how, he found himself at 
 her side. 
 
 "Oh!" she said. 
 
 She had not forgotten him. It was joy un- 
 imaginable, driving out the anger in his soul, 
 to see her light up at the sight of him, find- 
 ing him again, a friend who had laughed with 
 her, been careless with her, a hundred years 
 ago. 
 
 " So you have come back to us," he said. 
 "We are all glad to have you. What have 
 you been doing to yourself?" 
 
 "Nothing," she said faintly. "Nothing." 
 
 "The fox is playing hide-and-seek in there," 
 he said. "Stand in under the trees and 
 watch. You'd like it. There he goes. No, 
 they're not killing him. Why, the safest place 
 for a fox, in cover, is in the middle of the 
 pack." 
 
 He hardly knew what he was saying as he 
 H 97
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 piloted her into the field. She had always 
 been shy in gateways, afraid of her horse rub- 
 bing against other horses. . . . He neither 
 knew nor cared what had become of Lauder. 
 
 All those who were not engaged in wandering 
 in and out of the cover, losing themselves in 
 the twisting rides that, instead of traversing 
 the wood, wound deeper and deeper in, had 
 gathered at the top corner in a swarm. The 
 fox was meant to break out below, but re- 
 fused, and was being rushed from end to end 
 with hounds scurrying at his heels, all but 
 tumbling over him in a sudden turn. There 
 was a mad rustle amongst the fallen leaves 
 and grasses, an occasional flash of reddish- 
 brown, and then a disconcerting silence. 
 
 Judy leaned over her horse's neck, gazing in. 
 Now and then a puzzled hound came out 
 beside her and looked plaintively in her 
 face. 
 
 An urchin had thrown himself into the 
 wood, ragged, enthusiastic, plunging right 
 and left through the briars, snuffing like a 
 dog. "I smell un I smell un!" he cried at 
 intervals, persevering as hounds leapt over him, 
 upsetting him in the tangle, rolling him over in 
 the confusion, unhurt as the fox himself. All 
 at once he uplifted his dirty face, peering 
 
 98
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 upwards with a yell of triumph, pointing at 
 a fox in the tree above him, scarcely distin- 
 guishable, so still, so flat he lay along the 
 branch. No cub that, who had to be harried 
 into the open. His glittering eyes took in 
 discovery, and his leap carried him over the 
 enemy's head. Landing like a cat on his 
 pads, he made a dash of it, leaving uproar 
 behind. Scratched, but glorious, the imp wrig- 
 gled through the hedge after him, holloaing 
 with all his might; and hounds crashed out 
 into the field, and flung themselves on his 
 scent. 
 
 "Here, Columbus." A man shouted, throw- 
 ing him a bit of silver as he galloped past; 
 a little girl on a shaggy pony stood up in her 
 stirrups and slashed at him with her whip. 
 
 "You traitor, you little base traitor!" she 
 cried at him. 
 
 "That's my infant. Hark at her!" said 
 Sophia Bland. 
 
 "I I like that child," said Judy, looking 
 up at Gay. 
 
 "This way," he said. 
 
 Her horse was fighting for his head, and her 
 piteous glance at him was instinctive. She 
 followed him unquestioning in what looked 
 like the wrong direction, but brought them 
 
 99
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 to the front as the pack streamed round on the 
 right, pelted across the open green space 
 below the wood and spread over the fallows 
 towards the Trussels, turning sharp as the 
 fox, baulked in his first intention, left that 
 matted thicket on his right, and diving down 
 the steep embankment, reappeared on the other 
 side of the railway, skirting Dalby and making 
 for Gartree Hill. 
 
 Judy could not hold her horse. It was all 
 she could do to keep him straight, and Gay 
 was thankful when she got over a fence or two 
 without disaster. He shouted encouragingly 
 to her as he shot in front and picked out the 
 weakest place in a big hedge, trusting that 
 she would follow him. But her horse swerved 
 and blundered over further down, almost 
 landing into a pond. He thundered alongside, 
 breathing hard, too excited to look where he 
 was going, or feel the light hands that had no 
 grip on him. Luckily they were in a wide 
 field, all ridge and furrow, with the ridges 
 lying crosswise. Galloping over that took it 
 out of him, sobered him a trifle before he 
 reached the stiff post and rails beyond. Gay 
 did not know how anxious he was until he saw 
 that she had got over safe. 
 
 In the bottom hounds had checked; they 
 
 100
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 were feathering up and down, bringing the 
 field to a halt. But a shepherd, standing at 
 gaze on the side of the hill, had fallen suddenly 
 flat on his face. He had seen the fox coming up. 
 
 "It's Gartree Hill, sure enough," said Gay. 
 "Let's bear to the right. There, hounds are 
 on his line. We'll keep to the lane. That 
 horse is a little too much for you, isn't 
 he?" 
 
 She answered him between breathless gasps. 
 
 "I think so," she said; "but my husband 
 says that I am a coward." 
 
 Her husband. . . . Gay could just dis- 
 tinguish him in the distance, charging down, 
 the last to pull up at the huntsman's warning 
 hand, the first to break rank. Anger shook 
 him, but he schooled himself to keep his footing 
 as a comrade without aspiring to the dangerous 
 office of a champion. It was safer for her he 
 should not. 
 
 "Come along," he said. "We'll be there as 
 soon as they are. Don't hurry; I'll unlatch 
 that gate." 
 
 They swung out of the lane, galloped a little 
 way on the high road, and turned off, stamping 
 through the deep mud in the passage at the 
 back of the cover that let them up on to the 
 bleak hill-top. Hounds were just disappearing 
 101
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 into the cover itself and an avalanche of horse- 
 men was gathering on the summit ready to 
 sweep over the edge into the valley. 
 
 "I think,'' said Judy in a low voice, "I see 
 my husband looking for me." 
 
 But if she had hoped to blind the world 
 to the state of affairs between them her effort 
 was useless. Nothing could have made the 
 truth clearer than Lauder's churlish reception 
 of her, and her chidden look as she turned from 
 him. Gay ground his teeth, resisting his in- 
 clination to push to her side again before 
 them all. 
 
 "Do you see that?" said Lord Robert. 
 "That's how it is between them. A shame, 
 isn't it ? It wouldn't hurt the man to be civil 
 to her in public. Glory, here comes the 
 millionaire !" 
 
 Sophia Bland rode over the brow of the hill, 
 and with her, but at a little distance, her pre- 
 occupied admirer. Lord Robert, singling him 
 out, circled round him judicially. 
 
 "How has old Fireworks been conducting 
 himself?" he inquired. 
 
 "Surprisingly well, so far," said the victim 
 with caution. "No doubt he is waiting his 
 opportunity. Once or twice I had to let him 
 see I was on my guard." 
 
 102
 
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 " He's a deceitful beast," agreed Lord Robert. 
 "I've known him go a whole day like a sheep, 
 and then, without any warning, become a 
 demon. That was how he killed Parkinson, 
 wasn't it?" 
 
 The man he appealed to nodded, incapable of 
 speech. 
 
 "It takes uncommon pluck to ride him," 
 said Lord Robert respectfully. "Poor Johnny 
 Blackwood bought him just as you did off a 
 dealer, and wouldn't believe in his history 
 when we told him. Said he was an idle horse, 
 and took spurs to him.. He just arched his 
 back once, breathing fire and brimstone, and 
 that was the end of Johnny. I suppose he 
 owes it to his mild nose that he's not been 
 shot. Each man who sees him thinks the poor 
 animal has been slandered. Old hypocrite!" 
 
 He shook his head gloomily at the horse, 
 blinking consciously in his face. 
 
 "He thinks you're singing his praises," 
 said one of the listeners. 
 
 "So he does; but I shan't gratify him with 
 a list of his killed and wounded." 
 
 "The horse won't kill me," said his present 
 owner with much firmness. 
 
 "I dare say not. But you can't be too 
 careful," said Lord Robert. 
 
 103
 
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 "I'm told he goes meekly as long as he 
 thinks he's master. Humour him; humour 
 him." 
 
 He edged away as Sophia Bland came within 
 earshot. She called to him. 
 
 "What's going on ?" she said. 
 
 Lord Robert looked gently surprised. 
 
 "Oh, nothing at all," he said. "We were 
 only admiring your friend Potter's wonderful 
 horsemanship. He must be a joy to you. 
 Tell me, now, is there any limit to what that 
 man will swallow?" 
 
 Sophia raised her eyebrows but did not 
 trouble to protect her satellite. 
 
 "I really don't know," she said; "he has 
 a great sense of his own importance. I suppose 
 he doesn't think anybody would dare to meddle 
 with it." 
 
 "Ah," said Lord Robert, "that's the trap 
 with the big ones of the earth. Look at him. 
 See the deadly seriousness he puts into the 
 job of outwitting the ancient Roman. An 
 ordinary fool would have found out for him- 
 self that he hasn't a kick in him, let alone the 
 mysterious devilishness we've been putting 
 down to his score. How did you capture the 
 man ? Was it in a museum ?" 
 
 She laughed carelessly, moving along. 
 104
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 Hounds were working silently in the cover. 
 There was a peculiar calm that portended 
 something. 
 
 "I was rude to him," she said, "and he was 
 astonished. Since then he has never left 
 me." 
 
 "Are you going to marry him?" said Lord 
 Robert, with his head on one side, like an elderly 
 magpie. 
 
 It did not suit him to drop his voice, for 
 out of the tail of his eye he saw the man whose 
 infatuation for Sophia had been common 
 knowledge, and whom report said she had 
 never forgiven for his defection, approach. 
 Curiosity prompted him, not any wish to 
 help her to punish a deserter. ... It was 
 amusing to see Lauder as black as a thunder- 
 cloud. 
 
 Sophia lifted her eyes, lazy, inscrutable. 
 
 "Perhaps I am," she said. 
 
 And then arose a tremendous cry. The 
 horses quivered with excitement, scarcely to 
 be restrained until the fox leapt out across the 
 road below, springing on till he was screened 
 from view by the Lake Plantations, through 
 which hounds raced without a pause. 
 
 "What I am going to do," said Lord Robert, 
 letting the galloping tide go by and setting off 
 
 105
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 by himself, "is to cut along the bottom and 
 climb the heights. With luck I'll get to Bur- 
 rough Hill Wood first. I'm not out for exer- 
 cise, but judicious contemplation of other 
 men's mistakes." 
 
 He plodded through the clay in the deep 
 lane that he had chosen, turning a deaf ear 
 to the cry of hounds, now nearer, now fainter, 
 skirmishing on his left; and stopped on the 
 other side of the valley to exchange opinions 
 with Tokenhouse, posted there in his gig. 
 
 "Your fox has run up the draining furrow 
 in that ploughed field," said Tokenhouse; 
 " he's in the wood." 
 
 Hounds came scampering over the cart- 
 road at the bottom of the hill, confident, till 
 they were brought to their noses by the fresh- 
 turned earth, giving tongue delightedly as they 
 hit upon the furrow and ran along it in single 
 file. 
 
 "That proves what I say," said Lord Robert. 
 "Turn your back on them and they'll run 
 after you to the end of the world. Look at 
 the field now, in beautiful disorder half 
 of them left and the others blowing. Hullo, 
 you sluggards ! Your horses are all too 
 fat." 
 
 "What did you come out for?" said 
 106
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 Rafferty, who had outlived catastrophe in 
 the form of a blind ditch at the back of Little 
 Dalby. 
 
 "To study my horse's idiosyncrasies/' said 
 Lord Robert. "They all have 'em. The one 
 you are on for the present likes getting 
 rid of his rider. The best one I ever had 
 couldn't stand perambulators. Traction en- 
 gines were flies to him, and balloons mere 
 bubbles; but when there was any risk of 
 meeting a nurserymaid I had to ride him in 
 blinkers." 
 
 "Was that the one that bolted with you 
 last year," said Rafferty, "while you were 
 trying to sell him ?" 
 
 "It was," said Lord Robert sadly. "We 
 discarded the blinkers to show off his fine round 
 eye, never expecting to meet the foe wandering 
 with the Cottesmore in the lost wastes beyond 
 Crown Point and Dead Man's Bones. But 
 all at once I felt him shiver under me, and he 
 shied into the customer and then nearly car- 
 ried me to perdition before I got a pull on him. 
 I didn't sell him. . . . But it wasn't his 
 fault, poor beast ! There -was a perambulator, 
 though put to illegitimate uses. An old tramp 
 was wheeling it in the wilderness filled with 
 sticks." 
 
 107
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "And what's the matter with this one?" 
 said Rafferty. 
 
 "His peculiarity," said Lord Robert, "isn't 
 so uncommon; he can't go." 
 
 He drew on one side, passing the crowd in 
 review as they collected, winding up Burrough 
 Hill. 
 
 "Your hobby is human nature, isn't it, 
 Tokenhouse?" he said. "It's what you come 
 out to see ?" 
 
 "Hardly," said Tokenhouse abstractedly. 
 He was not attending. The main body had 
 massed itself under the overhanging wood, a 
 few were climbing still, and in the bottom 
 solitary individuals, thrown out in the ring 
 round Dalby, were making haste to retrieve 
 their errors and get up without remark. 
 Away on the left a discreet train of second 
 horsemen were approaching by a line of gates ; 
 and far back in the distance rang the scream- 
 ing, dying into a wail, of watchers who had 
 sighted another fox. 
 
 "Anyhow, it amuses you," said Lord Robert. 
 "I'll give you a hint; there's trouble brewing. 
 Oh, not the usual thing. I distrust that 
 fellow Lauder. He never was the kind to 
 pull up in time, and Sophia Bland is bent on 
 paying him out for the way he behaved to 
 108
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 her. It doesn't matter to her who suf- 
 fers. If she's not careful she'll drive him 
 a bit too far." 
 
 "Meaning?" said Tokenhouse. 
 
 "Oh, I don't mean anything," said Lord 
 Robert; "I never do. But I've heard how 
 the wind sits in a good many quarters." 
 
 Tokenhouse looked up at the sky. 
 
 "It is going to rain," he said. 
 
 "I hope so," said Lord Robert. "We 
 want it to take the gloss off a few of us. It's 
 painful to see fellows hunting in clean new 
 clothes. Mum's the word, but Lauder has 
 taken to drinking hard. Why the deuce did 
 he go and marry that little thing?" 
 
 He went off grumbling; the commotion 
 yonder made it evident that he would have 
 to follow up and join the others in scrambling 
 along the top. 
 
 Tokenhouse remained like a sentinel in his 
 gig, in abstracted contemplation of sky and 
 land. He was not in a talkative humour. 
 Perhaps habit was strong on him, and to a 
 man who had done with activity there was 
 something bitter in the sight of his old asso- 
 ciates carrying on a life out of which he had 
 dropped. There were too many known faces 
 in this crowd that had broken like a devastating 
 
 109
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 horde upon the quietness of existence, and the 
 shock of reminiscence affected him as it af- 
 fected them, imparting a touch of awkward- 
 ness to the meeting. 
 
 Before November was out the men would 
 have settled into comfortable forgetfulness of 
 the feeling that prompted them to be a little 
 too jovial, a little too cheery in greeting the 
 derelict, before sinking their voices to explain 
 his history to the others who did not know. 
 
 Sophia Bland, riding home in the dusk, 
 slackened her pace when she heard another 
 horse behind, but did not turn her head. 
 
 She had left the hunt in company with 
 others, but these had gone their ways, and 
 she was travelling the last mile or two alone. 
 It did not trouble her; hers was not a nature 
 to start at shadows, to see tramps in a hedge- 
 row, phantoms lurking behind a barn. 
 
 She knew who the man was who was lessen- 
 ing the distance between them with every 
 stride, hardening his heart to address her. 
 Often and often they had ridden home to- 
 gether along this lane, close and confidential, 
 their tired horses keeping step, stumble for 
 stumble, and far behind them the horn sound- 
 ing its melancholy lament at the back of Adam's 
 Gorse. But times had changed, 
 no
 
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 " Will you never make friends ?" he said. 
 
 She pulled her horse on to the grass at the 
 far side of the lane. 
 
 "It's no use," she said. "Ride home with 
 the married woman." 
 
 No Egyptian could have flung him more 
 bitterness in that word. 
 
 "Confound her!" said Lauder, under his 
 breath, loud enough for Sophia to hear. 
 
 "Stick to your bargain," she said. "I 
 warned you, Bill. It's no use your dogging 
 me, trying to patch up a kind of friendship, 
 a stupid imitation of what you might have 
 had. It was a straight issue, wasn't it ? You 
 took your way. I'll take mine." 
 
 "Does that mean you are marrying Pot- 
 ter ?" said Lauder in a husky undertone. 
 
 "Why should I not?" she said. "Why 
 should I not follow your example ? Perhaps 
 you have taught me, too, how to be prudent. 
 Perhaps 7 am tired of debts and difficulties; 
 all that I used to find amusing. As you did. 
 You decided it wasn't worth while, Bill. Why 
 shouldn't I?" 
 
 He brought his horse so near that his arm 
 brushed her shoulder. 
 
 "Sophia - " he said, and stammered some 
 wild proffer that the turbulence of his feeling 
 
 in
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 brought out before he knew it. Formerly they 
 had stood by each other, had shared each other's 
 winnings - 
 
 "Why," she said, "I believe the man is offer- 
 ing his wife's money to me !" 
 
 Her disdain struck him silent. 
 
 There was no loyalty in the man. In his 
 extremity he had grasped selfishly at his chance 
 of salvation without more than a passing sense 
 of guilt towards the woman whose hold upon 
 him was too weak to stand against his need. 
 He saw nothing despicable in his action. 
 Other men did the same; other women ac- 
 quiesced. 
 
 But Sophia had not acquiesced. She had 
 refused to see in his marriage a mere incident, 
 an expedient to be understood, to be excused 
 and forgotten. It was not he who had thrown 
 her over; it was she who, stronger than he, 
 had loosed him. 
 
 That was the thing that rankled, that filled 
 him with a furious admiration. He had not 
 realised until she let him go what she had 
 meant in his life, what a spell she had laid on 
 him. Barred, despised, her scorn of him fired 
 his old infatuation, and he would have liked 
 to fawn upon her like a tamed wild beast. 
 If Sophia Bland, the heartless, the indifferent,
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 had asked the gods for vengeance, she had it 
 in her hands. 
 
 "You shall be friends with me yet," he said. 
 "I'll make you." 
 
 "You can try," said Sophia. 
 
 They had turned out of the byway into a 
 wider lane running westward, and the hush 
 was interrupted by a weird pattering as the 
 pack came up with them and passed, mud- 
 stained, dim in the twilight, disappearing 
 like phantoms. The horn was sounding its 
 last long-drawn, mournful note, calling to the 
 lost. 
 
 The woman quickened her horse's gait, 
 joining the faithful followers who had stayed 
 to the end. The man fell back brooding 
 sullenly on what had robbed him of her.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE Babes had called in to ask Gay's 
 advice. 
 
 There were two of them, and they were 
 cousins, one the son of an admiral, and the 
 other the son of an Indian judge. Having 
 both failed to pass into the Woods and Forests 
 they had fled from the crammers and were 
 trying an experiment of their own. They 
 had brought to the adventure all that ardour 
 that schoolboys put into robbers' camps. To 
 squat in the midst of civilisation was a bigger 
 /joke than to do the same in an unsympa- 
 thetic prairie barren of lookers-on. True, 
 there were objections. You had to keep up 
 your fences, and you were open to the risks 
 of being pounced upon by curious relations 
 who popped in on you without warning, and 
 were eloquent with horror at your goings- 
 on. 
 
 They had to farm. Gold-mining would 
 have been more congenial, but it could not 
 114
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 be done in this locality. So they had set up 
 an iron habitation in the centre of their ex- 
 perimental acres, and Stokes had fixed a broom- 
 stick on the roof, partly to act as a flagstaff, 
 and partly to show that it was not a mission 
 room. 
 
 "If the flag is up," he explained to the 
 public, "we are visible to callers. If it isn't, 
 we are not presentable, and the ram is 
 loose." 
 
 The ram was not a myth, but a ferocious 
 guardian that Pinner had bought, quite by 
 accident, in the market. It was their one 
 protection against a prying world. Before his 
 coming they had been liable at any moment to 
 a domiciliary visit from the aunt who financed 
 them; now she wrote first, announcing her 
 intention. 
 
 "And that's a blessing," said Pinner with 
 profound thankfulness, when pouring out their 
 woes to Gay. "Do you know, she came down 
 upon us like the wolf on the fold at ten o'clock 
 in the morning. And there was I in my pyjamas 
 letting out the fowls; you must keep fowls, 
 or how are you to encourage foxes ? and poor 
 old Stokes washing up the dishes under the 
 pump, and using Admiralty language because 
 the grease wouldn't come off; we hadn't found 
 
 "5
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 out then that bacon fat cleaned itself up if 
 you dipped the things in hot water. I can 
 tell you that was a discovery - ! Well, 
 Stokes dropped the plates and ran for his life 
 to turn out the horses." 
 
 -For you see," said Stokes, "they were 
 supposed to be cows." 
 
 And drove them into one of your fields," 
 said Pinner. "So that when we took her 
 round the stables we could explain that we 
 always let them out after milking. She didn't 
 go down to the pasture to prod them with her 
 umbrella. I wonder at that. But it was a 
 narrow escape." 
 
 "It was bad enough as it was," said Stokes. 
 "She was awfully distressed at our doing our 
 own washing and all the real things. She 
 can't understand the laws of the game. She 
 said: 'Do try to live like Christians,' and she 
 was so sorry for us she sent down her delicate 
 butler, Johnson, who was told he'd a weak 
 chest and must live a gipsy life, to do the 
 housework and keep us up to our dignity. I 
 don't complain of his cooking, but I do object 
 to his going about from morning to night re- 
 proaching us with his clean face and his black 
 tails." 
 
 "It's perfectly awful," chimed in Pinner, 
 116
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "the way he clings to that old dress-coat. We 
 did all we could think of to beguile him into 
 other clothes. He says she made him swear 
 never to leave it off, for our sakes, to be a check 
 on our barbarous habits." 
 
 There was an artlessness about Stokes and 
 Pinner. They were both stout young men with 
 stubbly fair hair and ingenuous faces, and a great 
 capacity for boyish make-believe. They were 
 much alike, except that Pinner always had a 
 surprised look and Stokes owned a bit of a 
 moustache. They were known as the Babes 
 because of their artlessness, and because their 
 innocence was always being imposed upon. 
 Anybody who had a screw to dispose of con- 
 sidered them legitimate spoil, and their ap- 
 pearance in Melton market was good for 
 trade. 
 
 For Gay's opinion they had a superstitious 
 reverence. He had helped them out of a 
 good many difficulties, and it was their custom 
 to apply to him for counsel whenever any- 
 thing went wrong. By dint of following him 
 about and asking him questions they had 
 acquired some knowledge of a rudimentary 
 description. It was against the laws of their 
 game to indulge in hired assistance, but, 
 thanks to the aunt's subsidy, they carried it on 
 
 117
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 gaily; hunted enthusiastically on the queer 
 animals they picked up, and in their serious 
 moments worked with a feverish activity that 
 was too good to last. 
 
 They stood rather in awe of Tokenhouse, 
 but Gay they worshipped. And now they 
 waited in his room buried in two chairs, dis- 
 consolate until, at the sound of his step in the 
 passage, their gloom was lifted. 
 
 "Thank goodness!" said Pinner. Stokes 
 poked the fire and pulled out the chair he had 
 been sitting on for the master of the house, 
 while Pinner, equally at home, carried the 
 teapot into the kitchen himself to secure a 
 fresh supply of tea. Then they sat metaphori- 
 cally at his feet. 
 
 "Look here," said Pinner. "What on earth 
 are we to do ? " 
 
 "What have you done?" said Gay. 
 
 "It's not our fault," protested Stokes, "but 
 we can't see any way out of it. We hoped 
 you would. It's come on us like an earth- 
 quake. Oh, the pig's all right; we're getting 
 used to him grunting when he is out of temper. 
 We thought feeding him would do Johnson 
 good, bring him down to our level, but he 
 says it wasn't in the bond, so we'll have to sell 
 him." 
 
 118
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "We're in a devil of a hole," said Pinner. 
 "It's all the aunt." 
 
 "She's got mixed up with journalists," said 
 Stokes lugubriously. "Been hobnobbing with 
 newspapers - 
 
 "And she's been bragging to them of how 
 we're nobly demonstrating that there's no 
 occasion to clear out Britain's extra sons, and 
 that we're an object-lesson to British parents 
 colonising the desolate spots of our native 
 land. You know the kind of thing. And 
 they are turning the eye of the world upon us. 
 She says so. What the dickens are we to 
 do?" 
 
 "We can't keep them out," said Pinner. 
 "The ram's nowhere, butting against the 
 power of the Press. They'll make us notorious 
 all over the kingdom." 
 
 "And besides, there's the aunt," said Stokes. 
 
 "She's awfully cock-a-hoop. If we go and 
 disgrace her after all her crowing, she'll cut 
 off supplies. Just think what fools we shall 
 look ! They're coming down in a body to take 
 notes. We'll see ourselves pilloried in the daily 
 papers - 
 
 They looked at Gay. 
 
 " What's to be done ? " groaned Pinner. 
 
 "I am afraid," said their counsellor, trying 
 119
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 to imitate their solemnity, "you'll have to stick 
 it out." 
 
 "But they're making it a matter of na- 
 tional importance," urged the dismal Stokes. 
 "They'll photograph every inch of the ground 
 and the live and dead stock. I say, I'll never 
 forget the first time I went to an auction and 
 found out that wasn't corpses, but ploughs and 
 harrows - - ! " 
 
 "You see," said Pinner, "we haven't been 
 very lucky. We are having a healthy time on 
 the whole, but it wouldn't look grand on paper. 
 How can you make a cold-blooded Special 
 Commissioner, or whatever the monster's called, 
 see that a few nags are cheaper and more 
 suitable to us than a lot of cows that catch 
 cold and disseminate consumption ? There's 
 something queer about all our animals except 
 that flock of Highland sheep, and nothing will 
 keep them in one place two nights together. 
 They'd go through a brick wall like Mahatmas 
 rather than stay on exhibition. We spend our 
 lives hunting them 
 
 "That's what we have to keep horses for," 
 suggested Stokes. "We might say so, if they'd 
 believe us." 
 
 They ceased, looking at Gay in comical 
 despair. 
 
 120
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "I'll come round to the Tin House in the 
 morning," he said, "and see what's to be 
 done." 
 
 The Babes brightened immediately, as if a 
 load had been taken off them. 
 
 "Thanks, awfully," said Pinner. "Let's go 
 home, Stokes; we mustn't waste any time. 
 We ought to clean up for inspection." 
 
 But still they loitered. 
 
 "There's another thing," said Stokes. "It 
 doesn't matter really. But you know those 
 people who hunt from the house in the hol- 
 low ? We can sit on our doorstep and smoke 
 down their chimneys. . . . The man's called 
 Lauder." 
 
 "Yes," said Gay, in a changed voice. 
 
 "Well, the sheep are awfully keen on them 
 I mean on the yew tree in their garden. 
 It says in the dictionary that yew is poison, so 
 last night we had a presentiment, and we rushed 
 down the hill and found the entire flock rum- 
 maging in there. Of course, Pinner and I 
 went through the hedge after them, and we 
 had a great hunt." 
 
 "It was sport, you know," acknowledged 
 Pinner. "Pitch dark, and these black-faced 
 fiends darting about braying or barking or 
 whatever it's called, and us tumbling in all 
 
 121
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 directions grabbing at their wool. But Lauder 
 came out and swore at us like a trooper." 
 
 "We didn't mind that," said Stokes, "we're 
 used to it. He should hear the farmers - - ! 
 And, of course, it was late, and it was a bit 
 too like the Hippodrome. But the man was 
 drunk." 
 
 "He flung open that long French window," 
 said Pinner. "It made a big sweep of light, 
 like a theatre. And she was there; his wife, 
 you know. He'd been terrifying her. You 
 could see that. She had been crying." 
 
 "She was alone with him in the house," 
 said Stokes, "except for the servants, and they 
 were miles off, at the other end; they never 
 even heard us making that hullabaloo." 
 
 "We'd have to be blind and deaf," said 
 Pinner, "not to see the way he treats her. 
 Jeering and sneering at her, and sending her 
 out on half-broken brutes of horses, hoping 
 she'll break her neck! She's too frightened of 
 him to resist - 
 
 "I wouldn't talk about it," said Gay; his 
 own voice was hard. The Babes stared re- 
 proachfully at his averted face, misunderstand- 
 ing, thinking him unsympathetic. 
 
 "We are only telling you," said Stokes, 
 "and if we held our tongues we should burst. 
 
 122
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 We're not libelling him. Do you think it 
 would be cheek on our part if we called on 
 her and apologised for the row we made, and 
 asked her to look upon us as totally at her 
 service any time she wanted support ? As 
 neighbours ? " 
 
 Stokes was the more deliberate of the two. 
 He spoke with a slight pause before he began 
 a sentence, not owing so much to his wisdom 
 as to some professor's stern endeavour to cure 
 him of a stutter. Mechanically he counted 
 twenty before he brought out a word. 
 
 "Yes; can't we do that?" said Pinner. 
 
 They waited for Gay's approval. 
 
 "I suppose you can," he said heavily. 
 
 The Babes could not understand his manner. 
 It damped their enthusiasm, puzzled them. 
 They stared at his back disconcerted. 
 
 "We'll be very discreet," said Stokes. "We 
 shouldn't dream of saying to her: 'Count on 
 us to protect you against your husband.' But 
 still, we are handy. She might like to feel she 
 had friends within call." 
 
 "If you had seen her face last night !" 
 
 said Pinner. 
 
 Gay interrupted him. 
 
 "Oh, do as you like," he said. It struck 
 them that he was harassed by a trouble out- 
 
 123
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 side their ken, and they considerately de- 
 camped. 
 
 Gay heard them tramping out the back 
 way, making their unceremonious exit, and 
 when the house was again quiet he looked 
 round him stupidly, missing their prattle, as 
 one might miss a dog, his companion, whose 
 disturbing fuss broke into unhappy thoughts. 
 There was to-night no satisfaction in his bachelor 
 ease, in the blessed liberty that allowed him to 
 cast off his boots right and left, and meditate 
 in comfortable undress, his chair drawn up to 
 the fire, scorching his shins and sinking into 
 sleepy content. 
 
 No. He saw too much in the fire; burning 
 visions. 
 
 He got up suddenly and went to seek his 
 lodger. 
 
 The house was run on primitive lines, with 
 a simplicity that suited both men, neither 
 particular. A man and his wife did the house- 
 work : the man a born cook, the woman an 
 incorrigible cleaner, and although they quar- 
 relled perpetually, as is the wont of married 
 couples in service, it was but relaxation. Peri- 
 odically Crow ran away from his wife's 
 tongue, and Mrs. Crow did his work with 
 
 124
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 injured zeal, just, as she said, "to learn him." 
 Invariably at the week's end he unostenta- 
 tiously walked into the kitchen and began to 
 peel potatoes. Mrs. Crow in her turn imitated 
 him, but he, not sustained by a high-and- 
 mighty sense of his wrongs, used to take an 
 afternoon off on the third day to make his 
 peace with her and fetch her back. Their 
 bickerings kept the lamp of service alight 
 with a rivalry that scorned to admit either 
 indispensable to the house or each other, and 
 sometimes the first intimation Gay received 
 of a flare-up in his establishment was the 
 sight of his man returning triumphantly of 
 an evening up the lane, with his truant wife 
 and her bundle hanging on his arm. 
 
 He had an idea to-night that it was Crow 
 who was absent, by reason of a fitful hymn- 
 singing in the kitchen, and the significant 
 fact that the swinging lamp in the hall was 
 unlit. It was a thing Mrs. Crow could not 
 achieve, since it was a matter of inche% not 
 unconquerable spirit, and even by standing 
 on a chair she could not reach it, being but 
 
 o 
 
 half her husband's size. She hated that lamp 
 as she hated the library, which was a for- 
 bidden room to her, and which she was only 
 able to turn out by stratagem. Her displeas- 
 
 125
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 ure in that was translated into her manner 
 with Tokenhouse, whose private haunt it 
 was; and she was accustomed to infuriate 
 her husband, who valeted him and believed 
 there was nobody like him, by calling him 
 "the poor gentleman" with a shake of her 
 head. 
 
 Gay made for the line of light in the crack 
 of the library door and went in. 
 
 Tokenhouse was not like other men. You 
 did not mind him seeing you as you were, 
 without a mask, with the signs of turbulent 
 unhappiness yes, unhappiness, call it what 
 it was ! plain to read. An absent-minded 
 onlooker, impartial, with no blood in him; 
 what did it matter how much you let him 
 know ? 
 
 "Did the Babes get you?" said Token- 
 house. "They came up to pour out new 
 troubles. They did not want me. They have 
 an idea that I am cracked, and cannot give 
 sound advice." 
 
 He stretched himself, turning over the papers 
 in front of him with a long, thin hand be- 
 fore laying them down as one might affec- 
 tionately put aside an absurd, but engrossing, 
 toy. 
 
 126
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "I have a great fancy to preach this stuff," 
 he said. "I asked my cousin, the bishop, if 
 he couldn't make it convenient to turn me 
 loose in a pulpit. I put it to him that it was 
 rather ridiculous to appoint babes and suck- 
 lings to lecture us on matters they know not 
 of. He told me pompously that even these 
 grew up, and became in time as bald as proph- 
 ets. 'What's the advantage of that,' I said, 
 'so long as you pluck them young?" 
 
 He smiled at the recollection. 
 
 "I took a lot of pains," he said medita- 
 tively, "to convince my cousin. Do you 
 know I went round his diocese collecting 
 statistics putting down the subjects these 
 innocents took for discourses. It was an 
 imposing list. And I offered to give an under- 
 taking not to meddle with theology, but only 
 to .deal with matters within my province. 
 . . . He could not see it. Said he did not 
 want people to come to church for secular 
 information. . . . Said I was too well-known. 
 Which was just the point. They'd know I 
 wasn't condemning wickedness as an ignorant 
 amateur." 
 
 He looked over to Gay with the tolerant 
 air of one who bore with the shortsightedness 
 of his neighbours. 
 
 127
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "Well," he said, "it was a disappointment. 
 There's some fine rhetoric in these sermons - 
 and it's lost on a sinful world. Odd how we 
 always pine to be celebrated in ways we can- 
 not. ... As I lay on my back a year or 
 two ago the pulpit notion took a great hold 
 of me. You were not in the humour for the 
 Babes to-night?" 
 
 He dropped his tone of languid reminiscence 
 quite abruptly. 
 
 "I was not," said Gay. 
 
 He took a turn down the room, a big, un- 
 tidy chamber stacked with books, the accu- 
 mulation of many years, and smelling of 
 Russia leather. Its peaceful atmosphere made 
 no appeal to him. 
 
 "I can't stand it," he burst out, without 
 explanation. 
 
 "Don't do anything rash," said Token- 
 house quietly. " Don't do anything that would 
 make it worse for her." 
 
 "They all know- -" said Gay. "They 
 all see it the same as I do. There isn't a soul 
 ignorant of how things are. God ! Just to 
 look at her, to think of how she's put herself 
 under the heel of a man like Lauder. A ruined 
 spendthrift, a man without one decent in- 
 stinct, unfit to worship her on his knees - !" 
 
 128
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "Yes; he's all that," said Tokenhouse; 
 "but she married him. I don't imagine a 
 woman cares what a man is like if she is fond 
 of him." 
 
 His speculative calm failed to steady the 
 other man whose anger was beyond argument. 
 He had been curbing it until it could no longer 
 be controlled. 
 
 "I don't believe she liked him," he said. 
 "You don't know her. . . . They worked 
 on her with sophistries, pushed, persuaded 
 
 her I'll swear she didn't love him. I'll 
 
 swear that if I had been in time - 
 
 He broke off, startled at his own passion. 
 
 "I couldn't make you understand, Token- 
 house," he said less fiercely, but in a voice 
 that carried tides of feeling, "what a thing 
 it is to see a girl miserable, and to know that 
 if you had had your chance, you could have 
 made her happy. I'm not worth much, but 
 I would have done that." 
 
 "I have a working knowledge of many 
 problems," said Tokenhouse mildly. "I find 
 I can understand." 
 
 Gay halted in his tramp up and down the 
 
 room. His intimates, who knew him only as 
 
 a good man to hounds and one who could 
 
 always be counted on in a sporting enterprise, 
 
 K 129
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 would scarcely have recognised in him the 
 careless individual who took himself no more 
 seriously than did his world. 
 
 "If she were not so precious - ' he mut- 
 tered. There was a reckless light in his eyes 
 and a smile that was defiance, strange on his 
 humorous mouth. 
 
 "Ah," said Tokenhouse more gravely, drop- 
 ping into the impersonal note that character- 
 ised all allusion to his own experience he 
 always spoke of himself as if he were telling 
 stories of a man who was dead " I ran off 
 with a lady once. It killed her. ... I am 
 glad you understand that she is too precious. 
 . . . You cannot help her. Let her fight her 
 own battle, Gay; if I am not mistaken she is 
 brave enough." 
 
 "She is so young," said Gay. "She has 
 not a friend to stand by her; not a woman. 
 Oh, they are kind to her and all that; they 
 are sorry for her in a curious, lukewarm way. 
 But they do nothing. I tried to frighten 
 Maria. I said: 'Look what you have done!' 
 and she brazened it out and said no good ever 
 came of interfering between married mar- 
 ried, good Lord ! when she brought it about 
 herself, when it's a mockery and a sham !" 
 
 "Don't you be too hot a champion," said 
 130
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 Tokenhouse. "You'll turn the women against 
 her, Gay, if you're not careful. And you don't 
 want that; you don't want to hurt her." 
 
 "No," said Gay. "I'll leave it to her 
 husband." 
 
 It was true, though he raged against it in 
 angry hopelessness. He could do nothing that 
 would not hurt her. Tokenhouse need not 
 bring out his cold-blooded logic to make that 
 clear. 
 
 "You're a fish, a philosopher," he reproached 
 him. "Ton can't feel the cruelty of it all. 
 She wasn't made to be unhappy, Tokenhouse. 
 She was like a butterfly for the sun to shine 
 on " 
 
 Tokenhouse listened to him unmoved. 
 
 "I am an old woman," he said. "A safe 
 acquaintance. There is no reason why I 
 should not do what I can to look after her. 
 I'll talk to Maria. But if I were you, I should 
 keep out of Lauder's house." 
 
 "There is no danger of my crossing his 
 
 threshold," said Gay. "I had better tell you 
 
 - you'll probably hear it from others what 
 
 sent me home half mad. Oh, yes, I made a 
 
 raging fool of myself! I'm that sort." 
 
 He began tramping up and down the room 
 again, shamefaced, but unrepentant, reddening
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 under his tanned skin, like a boy who had done 
 wrong and was glad of it. 
 
 "The man was in a black temper this after- 
 noon," he said. "Sophia Bland had snubbed 
 him. And when we got our second horses, 
 the one he had ordered out for her was that 
 pulling chestnut. She can't hold him. She 
 knows she can't, and that shook her nerve. 
 We all came down to the brook below Melton 
 Spinney you know what a pace you want 
 to come there I called out to her to come 
 on, but she didn't understand, and I saw 
 her try to turn him away to the ford. And 
 Lauder came along buzzing like seven devils 
 and shouted she was to jump; she wasn't to 
 spoil the horse. That was rubbish, it was pure 
 tyranny; he knew that she was afraid. I 
 looked over my shoulder - And now his 
 
 voice shook with the anger that had burned 
 up into recklessness. 
 
 "He had got a cutting whip," he said, 
 "and he leaned out and slashed at the chest- 
 nut. It swerved and snatched at the bit, 
 rushed down like a whirlwind, right on into 
 the water." 
 
 He stopped, commanding himself to speak. 
 
 "He and I came over side by side," he said. 
 " Another man who had landed as she went 
 132
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 in was off and helping her up the bank. She 
 was pale with the fright, and dripping. . . . 
 And Lauder began railing at her. I could not 
 stand it. I just cried at him: 'You brute, if 
 I catch you bullying your wife again, I'll kill 
 you.' Hounds were in the spinney; every- 
 body had stopped ; it was public enough ! - 
 and some of them flung themselves between 
 us. I don't know if I hit him first. . . . All 
 I know is, he was never as near a horsewhipping 
 in his life. Any man would have done as 
 much." 
 
 "That is a matter of opinion," said Token- 
 house. And for all his passion Gay looked at 
 him with a twinkle. 
 
 "I think I was very moderate," he said. 
 "You'd have thrown him in the brook your- 
 self." 
 
 "I don't know," said Tokenhouse very 
 slowly. 
 
 133
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THERE were signs of unusual activity 
 at the Tin House as Gay strolled across 
 in the morning. The Babes, recovering some- 
 what from their first consternation, had 
 worked out a plan of campaign. 
 
 The night had brought a frost, not severe, 
 but enough to sharpen the air and lay a splin- 
 tering film on the surface of the water in the 
 dikes, and turn its trickle into a tinkle where 
 it ran shallow. The wandering cattle left 
 green tracks in the silvered grass. Gay swung 
 himself over a fence artistically mended with 
 a wooden chair thrust into a gap that was 
 fringed with wool, its legs sticking out like guns 
 pointed at the intruder, and passed from his 
 own land into that of the pioneers. 
 
 Johnson, the representative of decorum, 
 was standing outside the door of the three- 
 roomed iron house, wearing his usual aspect 
 of blank politeness a small, pale man, knock- 
 kneed but dignified to excess. He stepped
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 forward with a boot in one hand and a blacking- 
 brush in the other, as if the boot were a silver 
 platter in which Gay might drop a card. The 
 pig, soliciting favours, was rooting at his feet; 
 but that was to be ignored. 
 
 "The young gentlemen's up and out, sir," 
 he said. 
 
 "Oh, well, I'll find them," said Gay. He 
 could hear shouting not far off. 
 
 "Would you be so good as to ask Mr. Stokes, 
 sir, if he could spare the kitchen table ?" 
 said Johnson with a deprecating cough. "The 
 ram, he don't like me to go down yonder." 
 
 The Tin House was perched on the summit 
 of a thimble-shaped hill. Gay had walked up 
 one side and had now to go down the other. 
 There was a bit of a plantation at the back, 
 a few wind-sown trees; and as Gay skirted it 
 tie beheld the Babes, with half their stud 
 harnessed to a plough, turning up a pasture. 
 Two or three specimens of natural history, 
 unfortunate bargains, were standing in the 
 middle it was a small field as upon an 
 island, gazing. 
 
 "What on earth are you doing?" said 
 Gay, running down to them. 
 
 "Splendid idea, isn't it?" said Pinner, 
 leaving his horses in the furrow and joining
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 him, wiping the sweat off his brow. "Here, 
 Stokes, let's take a spell. It came to us in the 
 night, and we borrowed this plough and started 
 in before it was daylight. We mean to 
 be caught at it; it looks so awfully agri- 
 cultural." 
 
 "But why don't you clear off the stock?" 
 said Gay. Pinner looked wise. 
 
 "That's where our practical minds come 
 in," he said. "We'll explain to the Press 
 it's our scientific farming no waste. They 
 are there to consume the grass till the last 
 minute; and we're ploughing round and round, 
 closing in on them." 
 
 "The horses take to it kindly," said Stokes. 
 "Of course, now and then one of them gets 
 tangled up in the tackle. It's lucky that none 
 of them are finicking thoroughbreds." 
 
 He looked at his team with pride. 
 
 Their first independent action had been to 
 buy a mixed draft of eleven rejected animals 
 from the Army Remount depot. They were 
 of all shapes and sizes, more or less blemished, 
 and full of surprises in the way of tricks and 
 temper; but they had been cheap. The 
 Babes had filled their stables at the price of 
 a single hunter. 
 
 Pinner looked at his watch. 
 136
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "We thought," he said, "you wouldn't 
 mind receiving the enemy and taking him in 
 tow. Give him a fine view of us at our work. 
 You have a way with you, and we are ignorant 
 sons of toil. There's been a telegram saying 
 he's due at twelve . . . and another from the 
 aunt saying England expects, et cetera." 
 
 "He'll like to inspect the Tin House," said 
 Stokes. "We've hidden our easy chairs in 
 the haystack. It looks more primitive without 
 them. Ought we to invite him to eat bread 
 and cheese under a hedge with a clasp knife ?" 
 
 "We've told Johnson," said Pinner, "he's 
 the blot on the landscape; that on pain of 
 death he's forbidden to lay a cloth." 
 
 "That reminds me," said Gay, "I saw 
 Johnson, and he was in trouble about a 
 table." 
 
 The Babes looked at each other. 
 
 "It's those lawless sheep," said Pinner. 
 "We wanted to pen them in for inspection; 
 but last night we caught them wriggling through 
 your hedge and we flew out and stuffed every- 
 thing we could lay our hands on in the holes 
 they'd made. And after all, they did us after 
 we'd gone to bed. They're invisible; they 
 may be anywhere within a radius of twenty 
 miles."
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "Oh, by the way," said Stokes, "were you 
 attacked, coming down ? I hope the ram 
 hasn't drowned himself; he's so vain of look- 
 ing at his reflection in the pond. It would 
 be just like him to take offence and butt him- 
 self in the water. We let him loose to keep 
 Johnson in the house. You see, we put his 
 black coat in the haystack too as a temporary 
 measure; it's so frightfully out of keeping." 
 
 "He'd be certain to get himself photo- 
 graphed in it with folded arms, propping up 
 the shanty," said Pinner. 
 
 "Time's getting on," said Stokes; "let's 
 go and coax the old beast into the close. It 
 wouldn't do to have him buffeting the 
 Press." 
 
 They started up the slope, leaving their 
 scratch team standing in their tracks, and went 
 in search of the ram, luring him cautiously into 
 captivity. 
 
 "How my heart flutters," said Pinner, re- 
 appearing blown with the chase. "Who's that 
 coming ? " 
 
 His eye travelled from the distant road to the 
 hollow close underneath, and he seized hold of 
 Stokes. 
 
 "Look!" he said. 
 
 A girl in a white frock was coming out from 
 138
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 the trees that shut in the big house below. 
 Behind her, in a confused army, helter-skelter, 
 hurried the wicked Highland sheep. 
 
 "Witchcraft!" said Stokes, as overcome as 
 his partner. 
 
 "Watch her," said Pinner; "she's bringing 
 them up here." 
 
 She came with a running step, unconscious 
 of the three figures gazing at her bareheaded 
 but warm in her white woollen dress luring 
 on the missing flock, now and then turning and 
 shaking something at them till they quickened 
 their pursuit, following her in rushes, a huddle 
 of tossing grey. 
 
 Stokes and Pinner bowed down before her. 
 Their manner had just that touch of awe that, 
 when gods and men were familiar, might 
 have informed an Olympian shepherd thank- 
 ing an intervening goddess. And Judy 
 laughed. 
 
 "These are your treasures, I think," she 
 said, panting. "I don't know where they have 
 been, but they appeared suddenly in the gar- 
 den. I saw them from my window, all nib- 
 bling at the yew." 
 
 "Suicidal mania," said Stokes. "Will the 
 perverse little beasts be seized with giddiness 
 and disgrace us ? "
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "I don't think so," said Gay. "Give them 
 a feed and they'll probably stay a bit. They 
 can't have had enough yew to poison them." 
 
 "That was how I charmed them," said 
 Judy. "I made the men give me a bag of 
 corn at the stables. Please, they must not be 
 disappointed after following it so far." 
 
 The Babes sprang obediently to drag out 
 the feeding troughs (likewise thrust into the 
 riddled hedges), and Judy, stooping, shook out 
 the corn she had carried into them and 
 watched the little sheep struggling and 
 gobbling at her feet, with a quaintly tender 
 smile. 
 
 "I wonder how long they could entertain 
 themselves munching?" said Stokes; and 
 Pinner, inspired with the idea of detaining 
 them thus, started off to procure a further 
 supply. "We're eternally obliged to you, 
 Mrs. Lauder. We're expecting the London 
 papers." 
 
 He glanced at Gay for help in expounding 
 their plight, and Gay, for the first time daring 
 to accost her, was steadied by the quietness in 
 her face. Yesterday had not changed her. 
 . . . She faced him, the man who had rashly 
 proclaimed himself her defender, with the 
 same trusting confidence. His wild outburst 
 
 140
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 had not marred with strange thoughts a com- 
 radeship that had been instinctive. She smiled 
 at him as she always used, as at an under- 
 standing friend. 
 
 "Am I to explain?" he said. "It seems 
 that these two unlucky fellows have made 
 themselves conspicuous. They are anxious to 
 cut a decent figure before the representatives 
 of the Press." 
 
 "That's why we are trying to assemble our 
 flocks and herds," put in Stokes. "The aunt 
 would disown us if we disappointed her and 
 were published broadcast as a horrible ex- 
 ample." 
 
 Judy was thinking. She looked at the Babes, 
 quite serious. 
 
 "Ah," she said, "you must give them a 
 champagne luncheon." 
 
 "Oh, my, what an inspiration!" said Pinner. 
 " Wouldn't it seem unnatural ? And how about 
 the champagne ?" 
 
 "I'll send you up some," said Judy. "I'll 
 tell the butler." 
 
 The Babes suggested that they should run 
 and fetch it, and darted down the hill. 
 
 "Won't you sit down?" said Gay with the 
 outward lightheartedness that was his armour 
 against himself. 
 
 141
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "Thanks," she said in the same spirit. "I 
 accept your empty offer. Where ?" 
 
 The sheep had licked the last oat out of the 
 nearer trough, and he turned it over. 
 
 "It's not much of a throne," he said. 
 
 She sat down gravely, leaning her chin on her 
 hand, gazing down at the valley. The sparkle 
 died in her eyes. 
 
 Gay could not look at her, could not bear 
 to watch the sadness that was coming round 
 her mouth as the pink flush of excitement 
 faded and her smile went. He had an odd 
 feeling that she liked him standing near, that 
 his inarticulate longing of protection reached 
 her somehow; that her heart wanted it ... 
 simply ... as a child, unhappy, might feel in 
 the dark for the warm clasp of a playmate's 
 hand. 
 
 For a time she said nothing; and as he could 
 not look at her, neither could he speak to her 
 without danger. He would have liked to ask 
 her pardon for his ill-judged intervention, the 
 blunder of a man who had forgotten himself 
 and was ashamed and sorry. But the words 
 that would have come choked him. 
 
 There was no wind stirring, not a rustle 
 in the still sharpness of the air. To breathe 
 it was like drinking in spring water. It 
 142
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 was misty on the horizon, and the land 
 was as quiet as if enchanted. He heard her 
 catch her breath in a sigh; that broke his 
 silence. 
 
 "I wish I could do something for you," 
 he said, losing hold on himself. 
 
 "Why?" she said. He had to look at her 
 then, to meet her eyes, lifted bravely. "Be- 
 cause you think I am not always happy ? 
 I never asked to be happy; it's not what we 
 are for, you know." 
 
 Yesterday was between them; it was not 
 any longer possible to pretend that all was 
 right with the world. 
 
 "Yes . . . but that it should be you!" said 
 Gay. 
 
 "I don't think," she said, "that I have a 
 bigger claim on happiness than another. Some 
 
 of us have to suffer, and I would rather 
 
 Oh, you know the ones who cry out only want 
 others to suffer for them." 
 
 It was like her. Gay could have smiled if 
 he had been less bitterly conscious of his own 
 impotence. And she went on talking in 
 pauses, a vague, womanly understanding 
 running through her wistful girlishness. The 
 atmosphere was tragic and silence was not 
 any longer safe. . . . Perhaps she guessed 
 
 143
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 that; perhaps she was nervous, alone with the 
 man who had thrown himself unwarranted on 
 her side. 
 
 "People who want everything," she said, 
 "are too grasping. I think we are only meant 
 to be kind to each other not to fight for 
 ourselves, to be greedy for ourselves. The 
 worst is, when trying to help, you hurt some- 
 body instead. I'm afraid I ... tried too 
 blindly . . . and so, if I'm not . . . happy, 
 it's only because of my own mistake. It would 
 be cowardly to complain." 
 
 And then she looked up at him and her 
 breath came a little hurriedly. 
 
 " Will you let me ask you something ?" she 
 said. "You won't misunderstand me you 
 won't be angry ? I ... like you so much." 
 
 "Anything in the world," said Gay. 
 
 He did not want her eyes to fall before his; 
 he did not want her to falter. Surely he 
 could be a true man and let her keep one 
 friend ? 
 
 "Only," said Judy, turning paler, "to prom- 
 ise ... that you won't be too kind ... to 
 me." 
 
 The panting Babes were coming back, each 
 with a green bottle under his arm, full of 
 144
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 gratitude and excitement, metaphorically and 
 all but literally falling at Judy's feet. It 
 was more of a joke than ever, this threatened 
 visitation that had at first plunged them into 
 stupid panic, and they implored Mrs. Lauder 
 to remain and preside at the show. But she 
 would not, and they gave her a private view 
 of their possessions and finally escorted her 
 down the hill. 
 
 "Isn't she wonderful?" said Pinner, who 
 had handed her through the hedge. "He's 
 gone up to London; that's how she can breathe 
 and laugh and look as if she wasn't crushed. 
 Fve told her if ever she wants us to lend a 
 hand I didn't say what for left that to her 
 imagination !" 
 
 "What did she say ?" asked Stokes jealously, 
 having plotted the speech himself. 
 
 "Oh, shook hands upon it, and said if the 
 house went on fire we might stand up here and 
 throw water on the roof. Oh, Lord, look at 
 the horses; they've all been and unyoked them- 
 selves from the plough !" 
 
 Lauder was coming down from London 
 by the last train, and Judy was listening for 
 him, accusing herself for the dread in her 
 expectation. He liked her the less for her
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 fear of him. But she could not teach herself 
 not to shrink from unkindness as if it were a 
 blow. 
 
 It had been such pathetic folly, her marriage 
 to him; a hasty impulse of dazzled pity. Was 
 it her fault if she could not make him forgive 
 her the humbling largesse that straightened 
 his ruined path ? He had caught despair- 
 ingly at the straw and, saved, turned, venting 
 his humiliation on the slight thing to whom he 
 owed so much. The injury was that he should 
 owe it to her. 
 
 She could do nothing to efface his brooding 
 scorn of her, a resentment that charged her 
 with the thwarting of his one real passion and 
 laid his own weakness, his own disloyalty on 
 her shoulders. It was the man's nature, self- 
 indulgent, unjust. With all his soul he hated 
 the stumbling-block. 
 
 Judy had felt it from the first, afraid with 
 the loneliness of a bird caught in the hand of a 
 stranger. Always she had been shy with him, 
 and that was fatal. If she had been of com- 
 moner clay, a hard, rich woman, a bargainer, 
 ready to insist on her rights and maintain 
 her quarrel, she would have been luckier. 
 Probably Lauder would have respected her, 
 sulkily acknowledged her his equal. A coarser 
 
 146
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 woman, a railing woman, might have beaten 
 him to his knees. . . . 
 
 Judy could only shrink, terrified, the first 
 time his ill-humour towards . her betrayed it- 
 self; and her look of wondering pain had 
 angered him, increased his grudge. 
 
 She saw that others knew there was some- 
 thing wrong. People cast pitying glances at 
 her, looked sometimes askance at Lauder, 
 telling each other why. She heard the whispers 
 go round, and she felt shamed. 
 
 And yesterday . . . ah, yesterday . . . ! 
 
 Strangely enough she had not yet appre- 
 hended the inevitable gossip that might or 
 might not pass over Gay's explosion as one of 
 his characteristic deeds. Lauder's laugh after- 
 wards had been ugly; but he had not said 
 much. It was not on that account that she 
 had spoken to her champion, nor altogether 
 for his sake. 
 
 The recollection came back to her and made 
 her tremble. She shut her eyes and locked 
 her hands together, caught in its grip. The 
 dim winter afternoon, the galloping horses, 
 a man plunging down clumsily in his spurred 
 boots to pull her up the rotten bank, encour- 
 aging her with gruff kindness whilst he looked 
 with grim approval at Gay. That Gay ?
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 That, the good comrade Gay, whom she had 
 never known angry . . . ? 
 
 "// / catch you bullying your wife again, you 
 brute, I'll kill you!" 
 
 Why should it bring the colour into her 
 cheek, make her hands shake and her heart 
 beat ? Why should it make her feel almost 
 safe, almost happy ? 
 
 She fingered the pearls at her throat with 
 unconscious tenderness. Ah, strange, absurd, 
 vain mirage of happiness ! 
 
 Outside the house whirred a motor. In 
 another minute Lauder would have come in. 
 
 "If I catch you bullying your wife 
 
 How the words rang in her ears. . . . She 
 rose to go and meet her husband and wondered 
 why she was not afraid. 
 
 There was a mirror between her and the door, 
 and she saw her face in it and saw that she was 
 smiling. Surely she must be mad. 
 
 The thrill passed, leaving her faint as she 
 understood why, not all for his sake, and not 
 at all for the world's opinion, she had asked 
 Gay not to be too kind to her. 
 
 148
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 TOKENHOUSE, sauntering into the house 
 on the following Sunday afternoon, was 
 saluted by a prevailing scent, not tobacco. 
 He stopped on the threshold sniffing, but fail- 
 ing to identify it stepped gingerly through the 
 hall to the kitchen to reconnoitre. 
 
 Mrs. Crow's pinched look of virtuous repro- 
 bation showed that she too smelt it, French 
 and mysterious, in her nostrils. 
 
 "Who is the lady?" said Tokenhouse. A 
 strong whiff floated down the passage. 
 
 "She's calling on you, my lord," said Mrs. 
 Crow reproachfully. "I been singin' hymns 
 when she strit into the house unknown to me, 
 and come in here and asked for you. I told 
 her you was gone to church." 
 
 "Good," said Tokenhouse, chuckling at her 
 expression. "What is she like?" 
 
 "One of them hunting madams," said Mrs. 
 Crow. 
 
 Tokenhouse retired slowly, locating the 
 149
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 visitor by his nose, and found her in the library. 
 His countenance changed as he saw who it 
 was. 
 
 "Who did you take me for?" said Maria. 
 
 "Upon my honour," said Tokenhouse, "I 
 was all at sea. I could not imagine what 
 alarming enchantress had deposited herself in 
 this quiet house. That scent of yours is 
 enough to compromise an angel." 
 
 "Do you notice anything?" said Maria, 
 annoyed. 
 
 "Certainly," said Tokenhouse; "that was 
 how I smelt you out." 
 
 "Extraordinary!" she said. She took off 
 her furs and cast them from her. 
 
 "They belonged to that Russian baroness 
 who poisoned herself," she said. "I bought 
 them at the inquest I mean the sale. I've 
 drenched them in eau-de-Cologne, and still 
 they reek of that kind of person. Dicky hates 
 me to wear them; he calls it callous - 
 
 "You women rejoice in a convenient want 
 of imagination," said Tokenhouse. The furs 
 were slipping to the floor, and he hung them 
 over the back of a chair, handling them with 
 a queer gentleness. The perfume had not 
 been altogether strange to him; he remem- 
 bered. ... "At least, that is how we try to 
 
 150
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 excuse you the fluff and feathers your devilish 
 vanity makes you stick on your heads." 
 
 "You talk as if I had had her killed," said 
 Maria peevishly. Tokenhouse shrugged his 
 shoulders. 
 
 "You bring an uncanny atmosphere into 
 this humdrum house," he said. "Suggestions 
 of tragedies. How pleasant you cannot feel 
 it." Sarcasm was wasted on Maria. It only 
 brought a look of perplexity to her meddle- 
 some, but not unkindly, face, with its prying 
 nose and its domineering chin, already double. 
 
 "Sit down," she said. "I have come to 
 consult you. Talking of tragedies - - ! Shut 
 the door, please, in case that crazy house- 
 keeper strikes up in the middle. She has been 
 shrilling pious profanity at me for the past 
 half-hour. What possessed you to go to 
 church?" 
 
 "I was escorting Mrs. Lauder," said Token- 
 house. "I suppose you know Gay is out 
 somewhere. Shall I order tea ?" 
 
 "Do nothing of the kind," said Maria. 
 "Dicky is coming for me at four. I told him 
 I had to talk secrets with you. We are wretched 
 in our new house; no room for ourselves, 
 and yet he can't be parted from his stuffed 
 beasts, and I have to squeeze into my bedroom
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 dodging a lion's paw. Oh, Tokenhouse, for 
 heaven's sake do sit down ! You look so long 
 and thin and spidery and unfeeling. What 
 am I to do about my cousin Judy?" 
 
 Tokenhouse sank into his deep chair and 
 began to roll a cigarette, thoughtfully staring 
 at the golden-brown furs that she had dis- 
 carded. Ah, that scent . . . and the woman. 
 His gaze was reminiscent. 
 
 "You anticipate tragedy ?" he said. 
 
 Maria made a gesture of helplessness. 
 
 "It is incomprehensible," she said, "how 
 all my marriages turn out badly. I can't 
 remember one that hasn't been a disappoint- 
 ment. Except my own, and I had nothing 
 to do with that. Poor Dicky is so pig-headed. 
 Nothing would induce him to look at the nice 
 widow I had in my eye for him suited to 
 him in every way. When I pointed it out to 
 him he coolly proposed to me. Would do it; 
 and took me so by surprise. . . . Really, if 
 I were a superstitious woman - 
 
 She paused and looked distressfully at 
 Tokenhouse. 
 
 "I introduced Eva to her husband," she 
 said, "and she's divorced. And Harry Larkin, 
 who met his wife at my house, was eaten up 
 by a bear. And poor Susie, Susie who married 
 
 152
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 millions, is semi-detached; and Roddy Pirn 
 is in a lunatic asylum sunstroke. And now 
 there's Bill. / gave him a chance to pull up; 
 / rescued him from Sophia. Dicky says the 
 way he behaves to his wife is a scandal !" 
 
 "What do you want me to do ?" said Token- 
 house, interrupting her list of casualties. 
 
 "It is such a comfort talking to you," said 
 Maria. "You are so safe, so outside all that. 
 ... I want you to help me to smooth things 
 over, to look after Judy, and prevent your friend 
 Gay from making her conspicuous. After that 
 disgraceful tale of his threatening Bill in the 
 hunting-field, one feels that anything might 
 happen." 
 
 "I see," said Tokenhouse. "You wish me 
 to be a harmless damper on Gay's chivalrous 
 hot-headedness, and to watch unostentatiously 
 over another man's wife ? It's hardly my 
 place, you know." 
 
 "You are the only person who could," said 
 Maria hastily. She was a schemer whose 
 ingenuity was exhausted in bringing the wrong 
 people together, and who was always bewil- 
 dered by her catastrophes. "A woman can't 
 do much, and Dicky has no influence what- 
 ever with anyone but himself. You won't 
 lose your head."
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 Tokenhouse blew a thin cloud of smoke 
 and watched it fading. 
 
 "As you suggest, it seems to be my ap- 
 pointed role," he said, "but you come too 
 late. My dear woman, I have been doing 
 nothing else for weeks." 
 
 "Thanks awfully," said Maria immediately, 
 and rose as if her business had been con- 
 cluded. "Is that Dicky?" 
 
 Tokenhouse stood up and looked towards 
 the window, crossing the room, with his 
 cigarette in his fingers. 
 
 "That," he said, "is not the grinding of 
 Dicky's car. I rather think it's another lady 
 coming to favour me." 
 
 Mrs. Burkinshaw snatched up her furs as the 
 notes of a high, lazy voice floated in to her ears. 
 
 "Sophia Bland," she said. "Really, Token- 
 house - !" 
 
 "You had better stay and chaperon us," he 
 said. "I assure you I wasn't expecting either 
 of you, so I am blameless." 
 
 "7- ' began the British matron, but for- 
 bore further justification. The hoot of Burkin- 
 shaw's motor made it easy for her to depart 
 with the honours of war, and a haughty 
 salutation to the invader sailing unconcernedly 
 up the steps.
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 " Has Maria fled before me ? How flatter- 
 ing," said Sophia Bland. "Open the window, 
 for heaven's sake. She must have been wearing 
 her haunted furs." 
 
 She sat down in the chair Maria had vacated, 
 untwisting her vivid green scarf. 
 
 "I saw Gay riding out to lunch," she said 
 casually, "and so the infant and I walked up 
 to have tea with you. Baby, run and help the 
 lady in the kitchen; she'll let you make toast, 
 I'm sure." 
 
 Fanty, an imp in scarlet, vanished, but not 
 to join Mrs. Crow. She took possession of 
 the dining-room, persuaded the dogs she 
 found sprawling on the hearth to form a con- 
 gregation, and played at being two preach- 
 ers, popping in and out of rival pulpits, like 
 a small conjuror. A habit of doubling herself 
 in all her games was her expression of an un- 
 defined loneliness. 
 
 "This is good of you," said Tokenhouse. 
 
 "Don't look so alarmed," said Sophia. 
 "I have not come to make terrible confidences. 
 . . . We used to be great pals, Tokenhouse, 
 before your accident, before you dropped out 
 of things." 
 
 "Yes," he said, in a non-committal tone. 
 
 She glanced lazily round the room. Al-
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 though she gave an impression of a large, lazy, 
 good-natured woman, her eyes, generally half 
 shut, had hidden fire in them. As far as 
 Tokenhouse could remember she had never 
 played on him her dangerous sidelong glances. 
 There was no earthly reason why she should 
 do it now. 
 
 "I see you have Peppermint's portrait up 
 there," she said, "sandwiched between two 
 of Gay's family gods. He was a good horse. 
 Do you remember that other day I had tea 
 with you ? The day I lost my party at some 
 ridiculous country meeting, where you had 
 ridden Peppermint and we both missed the 
 train back and sat for three hours drink- 
 ing hot tannin and hugging the fire in a 
 dreadful public-house and it rained and 
 rained- !" 
 
 "Your dress was ruined," said Tokenhouse, 
 "and the man you were flirting with had 
 caught the train with another and you 
 were raging, a thunderstorm in yourself. . . ." 
 
 "You remember too much," she said. 
 
 She leaned back in her chair with an affecta- 
 tion of languid amusement that did not im- 
 pose on him. 
 
 "How comfortable you are in here," she 
 said. "I always want to talk of old times 
 156
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 when I stare into a fire like that. But isn't it 
 rather a pity?" 
 
 "What?" he asked. 
 
 "To throw up everything," said Sophia, 
 "to sink into a kind of hermit. You used to 
 ride so magnificently, Tokenhouse. You never 
 lost a race - 
 
 "Except the last," he said significantly. 
 Her impatience was diplomatic. 
 
 "What does that matter?" she said. "It's 
 two years ago. You talk as if you were a hope- 
 less cripple. It's not fair to yourself; it 
 gives people a wrong idea. The other day a 
 man asked me if you were mad." 
 
 "I wonder," he said, unmoved, "what you 
 told him." 
 
 "I told him," said Sophia, meeting his look 
 with an audacious frankness as she threw her 
 cards on the table, "that you were going to 
 ride Slipper for me in the Point-to- Point." 
 
 She waited. Across the hall the infant could 
 be heard discoursing in an affected sing-song, 
 interrupted by the collapse of one pulpit, and 
 the delighted barks of the congregation. 
 
 Along the passage came a faint clattering 
 of china. 
 
 "My dear Sophia!" said Tokenhouse. "I 
 don't ride. I have forgotten how."
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "Please!" she said. "I have set my heart 
 on it. If you ride him I know he'll win. Don't 
 talk nonsense. A man never loses his knack 
 a man like you." 
 
 She was coaxing him with assurance, used 
 to carrying her way with a high hand. 
 
 "Let me feel your arm," she said. "There, 
 what did I tell you ? It's as hard as iron." 
 
 "Possibly," he said. "I do some eccentric 
 exercises with dumb-bells occasionally; purely 
 habit. It's no good, Sophia; you can't cajole 
 me." 
 
 "Oh, but I must," she said. "I have set 
 my heart on the thing. What a triumph !" 
 
 He laughed, not bitterly, but contemptu- 
 ously, like a man acknowledging a weakness in 
 himself. 
 
 "Don't you know," he said, "that I have 
 lost my nerve, that the mere thought of a 
 gallop across country makes me shiver ? It 
 sounds absurd, but it's the plain truth. It's 
 a kind of disease, a neurotic obsession any- 
 thing you like. But, unfortunately, it is un- 
 conquerable. That spill shook me out of 
 myself, made an old woman of me." 
 
 "And yet you can look on ?" she said. 
 
 "Yes; I can look on. It is all I am fit for. 
 Don't waste your arguments on a wreck. Ask 
 158
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 somebody else. Ask" - his smile broadened 
 "your last admirer." 
 
 Her eyes flickered at him. 
 
 "Why don't you say- ' she said, 'Ask 
 Bill'?" 
 
 "Because," he said, "you probably want 
 to beat him." 
 
 "He can ride his wife's horses," said Sophia. 
 "You are one of her partisans, aren't you? 
 You think her an injured angel. Well, I gave 
 him up to her. Let her keep him. . . . Only, 
 if you won't do this for me, Tokenhouse - 
 
 "What then ?" he said, unshaken. 
 
 "Oh, I make no promises," she said darkly. 
 
 Mrs. Crow was bringing in tea, followed by 
 the infant, who scorned to sit at the oaken 
 table and eat her bread and jam, but went 
 and built herself two houses out of the largest 
 books at the far end of the room. She had a 
 cup and saucer in each, and visited from one 
 to the other, her lank, flaxen head just visible 
 above a rampart of stacked volumes, as she 
 squatted chirping to herself. 
 
 Sophia possessed herself of the teapot. Her 
 manner was softer, almost beguiling. She 
 was not yet in despair. 
 
 "Talking of my admirers," she said. "I
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 have thrown over the horse-tamer, as Lord 
 Robert calls him. I really could not stand 
 the wretch, and besides I'll be honest my 
 rudeness palled on him after a while, and 
 people told him tales. I am an exemplary 
 creature, but so many of them hate me." 
 
 "You are a little careless," said Tokenhouse. 
 "A little inclined to trample." 
 
 "And yet," she said, "I can be very nice to 
 my friends." 
 
 She looked almost handsome as she sat 
 watching him, her hair puffed against the 
 cushion, her face half serious, half jesting. 
 
 "Do you know," she said, "I am tempted 
 to imitate Maria. Are you never included in 
 her designs ? To suggest that what you want 
 is a wife, a stirring, amusing woman, who 
 would shake you up and be good to you. Aren't 
 you frightfully lonely, Tokenhouse, living 
 in this odd way, pretending you are a 
 fossil?" 
 
 "Not in the least," he said. "I have too 
 many privileges. All you women look upon 
 me as a tame cat, purring congenial advice 
 and, when required, consolation. You don't 
 take me too seriously." 
 
 "If you liked," said Sophia, with a signifi- 
 cant pause, "we would !" 
 1 60
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "Ah," he said coolly, "but I know my 
 limitations. I am not capable of entering 
 into an offensive and defensive alliance with 
 anybody, however kind she might be in making 
 allowances. My dear Sophia - 
 
 He waited, as if tasting the flavour of a 
 joke that was his own pleasant property 
 before sharing it with her. His curiously 
 tired expression became, for once, almost 
 brisk. 
 
 "Don't you remember," he said, "how 
 shortly after that accident, my kind relations 
 endeavoured to have me declared what is 
 the polite word for imbecile ? They swore 
 that the crash had affected my head and left 
 me helpless to look after my own concerns. 
 I am afraid they made rather fools of them- 
 selves; they were a little too eager to step 
 into my shoes. At least, the court would not 
 entertain their application. I am pronounced 
 sane and sober. That, of course, is a matter 
 of opinion, and I contrive to keep mine to 
 myself. It would be cruel to increase their 
 disappointment. I remain my own master, 
 but let them cling to their hopes of succession. 
 No, ( I seem to have no inclination to accept 
 your brilliant prescription. My dear Sophia, 
 it wouldn't do."
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 He shook his head at her slightly, dismissing 
 an impossible idea. 
 
 "I suppose," she said there was pique in 
 her voice, "you never remotely cared for a 
 woman. And yet, at one time, I actually 
 imagined - 
 
 "I fancy strange things myself," said Token- 
 house, rather oddly. 
 
 For a moment his look was abstracted, 
 almost wistful. He flicked the ash off his ciga- 
 rette into the fire and laughed. " No we are 
 none of us safe. All the same, Sophia, many 
 thanks for your kind intentions. I agree with 
 you that it is a sad pity my infirmities won't 
 allow me to ride your horse." 
 
 She picked up her scarf and began twisting 
 it round her neck. 
 
 Having failed in our mission," she said - 
 her voice had lost its laziness in chagrin - 
 "we'll go." 
 
 Tokenhouse rose, putting aside his bantering 
 lightness for a suddenly graver tone. Some- 
 thing in his attitude warned her. She was face 
 to face with a queer sense of the unknown in 
 him, and waited for him to speak, expecting 
 she knew not what. , 
 
 "Well?" she said nervously. 
 
 "If you wouldn't call it impertinent," he 
 162
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 said, "I should like to ask you if you quite 
 realise what you are doing to Lauder. You 
 are driving him mad, Sophia." 
 
 "/?" she said. "I've behaved with most 
 marvellous circumspection." 
 
 But her bold eyes dropped before his. 
 
 "I think we understand each >ther," he said 
 very quietly. "You want to punish him, 
 and you do it cleverly. You never let him 
 alone never let him forget ; you tantalise 
 him and turn on him with implacable scorn, 
 keeping the fire alight. I don't know what 
 devil taught you to madden a man like 
 that- 
 
 "I don't understand you at all," she said. 
 "What can it matter to you?" Her eyes 
 began to glitter. 
 
 "Only," said Tokenhouse, "because it falls 
 heavily on his wife." 
 
 Sophia flung up her head and burst into 
 discordant laughter, like an hysterical child. 
 
 " Oh," she said, " so that's it that's it ! " 
 
 She was not prepared to find in him another 
 attitude than that to which she was accus- 
 tomed; it was impossible to awaken him to 
 action, to change him to suit her purpose. 
 It was the more astonishing that he should 
 seize her wrists, looking down upon her 
 
 163
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 laughter with a tightened mouth and eyes 
 that were like steel. 
 
 "Yes," he said; "that's it. Don't think 
 either you or Lauder are worth considering 
 except in so far as you trouble her." 
 
 Sophia Bland wrenched her hands free, at 
 a loss to knowilwhy they trembled. 
 
 "So all the world is on her side!" she said. 
 
 Tokenhouse had recovered his equanimity. 
 He looked into her startled face with all his 
 former nonchalance. 
 
 "It is," he said. "Even I am roused. 
 Hot-headed fellows like Gay are born to play 
 knight-errant; but the position is serious 
 when I go down the lists. I can't think how 
 any woman can make another woman un- 
 happy; it seems unnatural. You want all 
 your strength to help each other. I can't 
 understand how a woman can be a traitor. 
 Can't you pretend to care a little for anybody 
 but yourself?" 
 
 "If you expect me to love that girl- !" 
 said Sophia. He interrupted her. 
 
 "I don't expect miracles," he said. "I am 
 simply advising you that her unhappiness lies 
 at your door. Don't make yourself answer- 
 able for too much." 
 
 "Preacher!" she said, and called to Fanty, 
 164
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 who came unwillingly to wriggle into her 
 coat. "Perhaps if I were a little puling thing 
 with large eyes and a confiding smile you 
 would champion my cause instead. I can't 
 understand the infatuation that drives you 
 men to lose your hearts as you do to the weak- 
 est of us. She can't hold a horse. . . . I've 
 seen her turn pale, and the reins slipping 
 through her fingers . . . and how can she 
 hold a man ? Oh, I am not jealous of her - 
 heaven knows I have little cause ! She bought 
 him. As you say, I don't care for anybody 
 unless it's that infant. She's the only thing 
 I have that can't be taken from me not even 
 by the bailiffs." 
 
 "Is it peace?" said Tokenhouse, holding 
 open the door for her. "No doubt I have 
 done more harm than good." 
 
 She smiled at him enigmatically. 
 
 "Oh, it is peace," she said. "I don't want 
 to quarrel with you. One lets you say things 
 because you are not an ordinary person. Only, 
 Tokenhouse, it's pleasanter when you don't 
 look as if you meant them. You took away 
 my breath. . . . Of course, you have done 
 more harm than good. What adviser with the 
 best intentions ever did otherwise ? You didn't 
 even hold out a bribe - 
 
 165
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 She gave the last word meaning. 
 
 "I have nothing to offer," said Tokenhouse, 
 "that would bid you hold your hand." 
 
 She went down the steps without looking 
 back, and walked on towards the village with 
 the infant dancing like a sprite in her train. 
 It was scarcely dusk. 
 
 As became a Sunday afternoon in the country 
 there were sweethearts abroad, hanging over 
 the gates or marching in unabashed rustic 
 fashion along the highway; the girl if the 
 swain were neglectful advertising her prop- 
 erty in him by walking with her hand on his 
 shoulder. Sophia's lip curled as she passed, 
 an object of awed attention to the pairs turning 
 their heads to look after her. 
 
 All this love-making was a trivial pastime, 
 contemptible, common, adding strangely to 
 her fierceness of discontent. What fools there 
 were in the world ! 
 
 She had reached the bottom of the lane 
 and was turning down to the village with 
 Fanty running ahead, hurrying with childish 
 eagerness to peer into the glimmering belt 
 of trees that darkened the wayside, and held 
 heaven knew what imaginary wild creatures - 
 when she saw the man she was thinking of. 
 It was not surprising that he should start 
 166
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 up in her path as if her spirit had summoned 
 him. Was he not always there, sulkily watch- 
 ful for a shadow of relenting ? 
 
 "Are you going to speak to me ?" he said. 
 
 "I am not sure," said she. 
 
 He grasped at the slight concession and fell 
 into step beside her. 
 
 "Oh," she cried at him then, "don't let MJ, 
 of all people moon side by side like a kitchen- 
 maid and a groom!" 
 
 "Just as you like," said Lauder. "Ask me 
 into your house if you don't want me to haunt 
 your steps. Who is riding Slipper for you in 
 the Point-to-Point ?" 
 
 "What do you know about him?" she 
 said. He braved her disdainful look stub- 
 bornly. 
 
 "How can I help it?" he said. "I hear 
 scraps." 
 
 "I have just been up to ask Tokenhouse," 
 she said. 
 
 It was not too dusk to see him redden. 
 
 "Once," he said, "you'd never have dreamt 
 of asking anyone but me. Tokenhouse ? He 
 can't ride." 
 
 "He says not," she said. 
 
 "He can't, I tell you. Let me ride the 
 horse; I know him. I've ridden him for you 
 
 167
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 ever since you had him. I believe if I saw 
 another man up I'd - 
 
 "You ride him?" she interrupted. "You 
 forget, Bill, that we've washed our hands 
 of each other. And I want my horse to 
 win." 
 
 "I'll win on him," said the man. 
 
 His eye was dull, and his face looked bloated, 
 but his voice was keen. 
 
 "I've not been steady lately, I know," he 
 said. "Don't look at me like that. I'll pull 
 up. Let me ride for you and I'll win his race, 
 or break his neck and my own." 
 
 He waited for the inevitable taunt, the bit- 
 ter check on his approach towards a forfeited 
 intimacy. Did he not know just how this 
 woman would turn on him, lashing him with 
 her tongue ? She was continually teaching 
 him that he was shut out of her existence, 
 too despicable in her eyes for more than a 
 biting word. But the jealousy that consumed 
 him at the thought of another man taking his 
 place with her, riding the horse he knew, drove 
 him. to push his useless claim. Somehow this 
 last trifle hit him harder than anything - 
 made him mad. 
 
 The mocking refusal did not smite him 
 as quickly as he expected, and he took an 
 168
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 incredulous look at her. It was not possible 
 that she was relenting. . . . 
 
 "I'll be generous, Bill," she said. "I'll let 
 you ride him. But you needn't build on that. 
 And mind, you are to win." 
 
 Amazement at the favour took all the sting 
 out of her grudging grant. His voice was 
 thick and his face darkly flushed as he swore 
 that there should be no defeat. 
 
 "What is the infant doing?" said Sophia 
 with astonishment. Fanty had arrived at the 
 patch of firs and was executing a war-dance, 
 inciting villains within to issue forth and be 
 slain. Her challenge was pitched in an ex- 
 ulting key, and as she made little rushes at 
 the place of mysterious darkness, something 
 gleamed in her hand. At their approach she 
 dived in among the firs. 
 
 "Baby, what is that you have got?" said 
 Sophia sharply. The little shrill voice pealed 
 out of the glimmer, behind a tree. 
 
 " I'm playing at a robber and a policeman. 
 I took Lord Tokenhouse's pistol what he shoots 
 at hawks." 
 
 "Good heavens!" said Sophia. "Bring it 
 here, baby!" 
 
 "Die, false hound!" hissed Fanty to the 
 robber, paying no more attention. 
 
 169
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "The little wretch!" said Sophia. "She 
 must have hidden it in her sash. It's sure to 
 be loaded. Baby, baby, give it up!" 
 
 But Fanty, armed and irresistible, had sprung 
 behind another tree and was defying the myrmi- 
 don of the law. She was the robber now, in- 
 vincible in his den. 
 
 "She's got it by the right end," said Lauder. 
 
 "Take it away from her," said Sophia with 
 a shudder. 
 
 Lauder plunged heavily over the ditch, in 
 amongst the trees, pursuing the infant's eldritch 
 laughter as she twisted invisibly, avoiding him. 
 It was a dangerous game, until he caught her 
 wrist, wringing the revolver out of her clutch. 
 
 "That was a real play," she panted, con- 
 gratulating herself. She scrambled into the 
 road after him, excited and utterly unrepent- 
 ant. 
 
 "It's a miracle she didn't shoot it off," 
 said Lauder. "I'll bet she knows how, the 
 imp!" 
 
 Sophia caught Fanty's hand in hers, shaking 
 her and then squeezing her to her side. 
 
 "You are a fiend, baby," she said. "Don't 
 exhibit the horrible thing to me, Bill; it makes 
 me ill to see it. She must have hunted it out 
 and carried it off on purpose." 
 170
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 Lauder slipped the revolver into his pocket. 
 He was out of breath. 
 
 "I frightened you very much," said Fanty 
 delightedly. "It was like being a true robber," 
 and she sighed. "What's he going to do with 
 my gun ?" 
 
 "Give it back to Lord Tokenhouse," said 
 Sophia. Unconsciously her voice had fallen 
 into the old familiar accents. "Won't you, 
 Bill?" 
 
 "There's no hurry," said Lauder. "I'm 
 going on with you to the village." 
 
 "I don't see that," said the woman. "You 
 can ride Slipper; I said so. And perhaps . . . 
 if you win - -!" 
 
 She left the rest ambiguous, but dismissed 
 him. 
 
 171
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 A THAW had come, and all the world was 
 again in the saddle after an awful pause. 
 
 Instead of fractious processions of hooded 
 and sheeted hunters, mincing by in the hard 
 middle of the road, the lanes were awakened 
 to the trotting of small parties of two and 
 three. Horse and man turned up at the meets 
 with the exuberant freshness of captives let 
 out of school. 
 
 "I am looking forward," said Lord Robert, 
 "to hearing the water squirt after us in the 
 furrows. Delightful sound ! All I ask of 
 nature is a little ^ain, just sufficient to take the 
 twist out of your moustache so that you can 
 suck the ends and feel happy. It may be 
 prejudice, but I cannot bear to see the country 
 starched." 
 
 They were cantering down to Burbidge's. 
 Hounds had been flirting wide in search of an 
 outlier, and had already gone over higher up; 
 172
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 but the field was held back at the railway 
 crossing to await the passing of an express. 
 The man patrolling with a red flag jumped up 
 on the gate to watch hounds go into the 
 cover, with his back to the barred and im- 
 patient host. Smoke drifted in their faces, 
 hanging low in the rainy atmosphere, blotting 
 out Burbidge's from their view. 
 
 "Pah!" said Rafferty, wheeling his thick- 
 set cob, who had indulged in no antics although 
 pulled up with his nose at the white bars 
 of the railway gate. " Hi, my man ! Get 
 down there, and let us through." 
 
 The man shook his head without turning it, 
 his eyes glued to the pack sniffing among the 
 badger earths in the old canal bank and finally 
 disappearing into the evergreen mystery of the 
 cover. 
 
 "Patience!" said Lord Robert, reproving 
 him.. "Do you want the down train to cut 
 us all in pieces ? I dare say the fox'll wait our 
 convenience. Don't you like the taste of 
 smoke ? It swallows raw down your throat, 
 but it's a sweet prognostic." 
 
 "Oh, you and your rain!" said Rafferty. 
 "It's a treacherous thaw that comes with a 
 drizzle; it won't last. Everything will be 
 glazed to-night."
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "Hark to the pessimist," said Lord Robert. 
 "He's thinking of the bumps he'll get on the 
 north side of hedges. Haven't you found out 
 yet that the ground is as soft as butter ? Did 
 you see Jordan with his pockets bulging with 
 insurance papers ? Wonderful thing the com- 
 mercial spirit ! He used to be an arrant 
 little coward, and now it's fine to see him 
 charging everything like a lion, fortified by 
 the knowledge that if he's killed he stands to 
 make two or three thousand pounds." 
 
 "Wish they hadn't made him an agent, 
 though," grumbled Rafferty. "It casts a gloom 
 over the landscape when he bustles into us 
 at a meet, asking each man if he's insured. 
 Why couldn't the man go into something 
 lively, like wines and spirits ?" 
 
 "Is that it?" said Lord Robert. "Why, 
 when he rode up to me with his ingratiating 
 smirk and began, I thought he was trying to 
 be funny. Here, Jordan, they tell me you're 
 genuine and don't mean to be insulting. Put 
 me in for an accident." 
 
 The down train whizzed past, leaving 
 the humming metals clear for them to pour 
 across, and they pressed through and streamed 
 over the two fields that parted them from the
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 few who had crossed quickly with hounds 
 and were now listening at the end of the 
 cover. 
 
 "That's what I like about Burbidge's," 
 said Lord Robert "You're all in a bunch. 
 You can take stock of each other and see 
 who's out without missing anybody but the few 
 lost souls who lie in wait afar on the other 
 side of the river. It's a regular island; a 
 moated kingdom. But I'm grieved to hear 
 there's been a plague of nightingales in the 
 summer. I hope the foxes weren't disturbed. 
 Look at the Babes worshipping Mrs. Lauder. 
 What's this I hear about their getting into the 
 papers? What mischief have they been in?" 
 
 "Only setting an example to the rising 
 generation," said Gay. 
 
 "Oh, that's why they look so elated," said 
 Lord Robert. " Casual innocents ! They've 
 been getting in everybody's way this morning, 
 pegging away on their rag-tag and bobtail 
 and grinning at the universe. How are you, 
 Gay; and where's old Tokenhouse ? I miss 
 him and his umbrella." 
 
 "He went away for a few days," said Gay. 
 He was watching Judy. All the morning he 
 had tried to keep far off, but surely now, 
 when the world was penned into that sheltered
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 corner, he might exchange a word with her, 
 assure himself that it was well with her. . . . 
 
 "I suppose he is coming back for the Point- 
 to- Point?" said Lord Robert. "He likes to 
 look on at us, poor old chap. I hear you 
 are riding Fanny, and" -his voice dropped 
 slightly - -" that you'll have Lauder to beat. 
 He and Sophia seem to be reviving their old 
 alliance. At least, they say she's made his 
 winning on Slipper the price of her forgiveness. 
 But they'll say anything. You'll have a tough 
 struggle if it's true." 
 
 He measured Gay with his eye. It was an 
 interesting speculation whether the feud be- 
 tween Gay and Lauder lay deep, or was a 
 temporary flare-up. Its first manifestation had 
 become historic, but Gay was just the sort 
 of imprudent champion who would let an 
 impulse run away with him. There might be 
 nothing in it. The scandalous might snatch 
 at the story and keep it alive, but the larger 
 half was more charitable. Contrary to its 
 custom of despising the woman whose wealth 
 purchased her a tyrant, it liked and pitied 
 Judy. 
 
 "I dare say," said Gay, absently. He 
 moved up along the fence, steering in and out 
 of the shifting crowd till he was near to her. 
 
 176
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 Another woman was talking to her, and he fell 
 into conversation with the Babes, her devoted 
 satellites. There was no harm in that. And 
 the rest of those about her chimed in; there 
 was a regular babel in which he bore his part, 
 hearing always her slow, soft voice amongst 
 the shrill ones and the deeper notes of the men, 
 waiting for her to turn her head his way. 
 When she did it took him unawares. He 
 felt as if they must all see him start. 
 
 "You are riding that horse again," he 
 said. He had not meant to take that danger- 
 ous tone of guardianship; he had meant 
 to say something ordinary about the weather. 
 
 "Yes," said Judy, and patted the chestnut 
 with a soothing, but not too firm little hand. 
 "I'm trying to cure myself of being timid. 
 But I'm like that girl who used to put one 
 foot every day in the same field with a bull - 
 when his back was to her and said she was 
 cultivating courage. He's my second horse, 
 and I told the man he needn't be too anxious 
 to keep him fresh. I hoped perhaps he would 
 steal a gallop." 
 
 She spoke lightheartedly, but the listeners 
 could see that it was an effort. Probably she 
 was making a poor attempt to propitiate 
 her husband. 
 
 N i 77
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "You can be as foolhardy as you like, 
 Mrs. Lauder," said Lord Robert, cutting in. 
 "Accidents haven't such terrors for you as for 
 ancient bachelors like myself. Here's Jordan 
 pretending to insure all comers, and he won't 
 guarantee a poor devil against matrimony, 
 the most serious accident in the world. He 
 says it doesn't come in under the heading of 
 hunting casualties. And I say he doesn't know 
 his business." 
 
 He shook his head at Jordan, whose mind was 
 no longer on these matters, and who was 
 edging into the corner with the intention of 
 dashing through to the ford before the crush, 
 expecting the fox to cross the river. There 
 was a fox inside, and hounds were driving him 
 that way. 
 
 "There isn't a cover like Burbidge's in the 
 world," said Gay. "It's like London, a jump- 
 ing-off place. You come down with the Bel- 
 voir and you never know where you'll end, 
 away in the Cottesmore country, or right in 
 the heart of the Quorn. It's a place to dream 
 of all your life, with its endless possibilities, 
 and its weird green spires, sitting on the edge 
 of the river." 
 
 "There he goes!" said the watchful Jordan, 
 178
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 waving his arm and pointing to the heights. 
 At the same instant another fox flashed out 
 towards the railway. But there was no hesita- 
 tion which was the one to follow. 
 
 Hounds splashed through the river and were 
 flying up the slope southward, as the crowd 
 pushed along the ride and struggled through 
 the ford at the back of the cover, spreading 
 on the hill. The raw air had become electric; 
 the empty fields a scene of frantic endeavour. 
 For the first few minutes all were equal; a 
 tumultuous army; and then the front rank 
 drew away; there were gaps in it here and 
 there, a visible thinning of the pursuit. 
 
 The fox had all but reached Burton, then 
 whirled suddenly to the right, and without 
 checking was away over the Sandy Lane, im- 
 perceptible now in the distance, but easy to 
 follow with that swelling chorus to guide a 
 man who could keep the pace. 
 
 The Babes, riding their hardest, were left 
 behind as if they had been standing still. 
 Rafferty himself, who did not run to the finest 
 cattle, buzzed past them with his mouth open, 
 blowing harder than his horse. But they 
 valiantly pelted on. There were others in the 
 same case as they. 
 
 "Hear them!" gasped Pinner. "They're 
 179
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 keeping on over the rifle range. We'll never 
 get up unless they lose him in the bottom. 
 Oh, come on ! Come over ! Stokes, 
 Stokes, since you are down you might pull up 
 that stake." 
 
 Stokes, who had gone first at an obstacle, 
 and taken it on his head, got up dizzily and 
 did as he was asked; and Pinner blundered 
 over to catch his horse. There was grief on 
 all sides, but the survivors kept on like mad- 
 men, following the established custom of see- 
 ing out the run before returning to pick up the 
 pieces. 
 
 "Where have they got to?" said Stokes, 
 rubbing his eyes and staring. Pinner flung 
 up his arm. 
 
 "There they are!" he screamed. "Still 
 running, by jingo ! Down in the valley, just 
 half a dozen with them. They've turned 
 again. No, they haven't. He's twisting a bit. 
 I can't see behind that hillock - 
 
 "The sheep are running beyond," said 
 Stokes. 
 
 "Sheep?" cried Pinner. "It's not sheep; 
 it's not sheep; it's hounds !" 
 
 He looked round him wildly. 
 
 "Just see that!" he said. "Call that luck! 
 Here we are, miles behind, and they're head- 
 180
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 ing straight for the Tin House. You bet your 
 life that fox has been in our spinney. I'll get 
 off this quadruped and run for it." 
 
 Two or three grazing horses, disturbed by 
 the chase, came floundering past, and the 
 sight of them inspired him with a wilder plan. 
 He slid off his exhausted steed and dashed at 
 them as they halted, breathing excitement; 
 grabbed one of them by the forelock, and 
 thrust his bridle over its head, clambering on 
 its back before its astonishment at being 
 caught and bitted could find expression. For- 
 tunately it was not a cart-horse. He dug 
 his knees into its fat sides and started ofF in 
 grand style, overtaking Stokes as he went down 
 into the valley. The dim figures in the first 
 flight vanished over the horizon, the cry of 
 hounds sounded far and ghostly, muffled by 
 distance. Sometimes it seemed to be bearing 
 to the right, and again changed and was carried 
 to them southerly. 
 
 "They're slackening a bit," said RafFerty, 
 puffing hard. He had come to a standstill 
 in the bottom, and as the Babes hurled them- 
 selves after him, and Pinner's glorious experi- 
 ment came to an ignominious end, he had 
 time to perceive their plight. 
 
 "Lost your saddle ?" he said, staring. 
 181
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "No. It's on my horse. I left him back 
 there," said Pinner vaguely. He was sitting 
 on the ground. "You do these things when 
 you get excited." 
 
 The kidnapped horse had given him three 
 minutes of exultation, and then scattered 
 him. He felt himself and laughed. "Never 
 mind me!" he shouted after Stokes, who was 
 plugging on by himself. 
 
 Gay had taken a wrong turn himself, and 
 was making up for lost time. He flew past 
 Lord Robert, toiling hard. "He'll go to 
 ground in Cream Gorse or at the back of my 
 place," he shouted in consolation. "Don't 
 hurry; he knows he's safe in this country 
 from a Belvoir spade." 
 
 But the fox had no such pusillanimous 
 bent. He was making a great curve, swinging 
 right round towards Kirby, a sweep that 
 hounds took unfaltering, though his turn was 
 sharp and flung out the nearest riders. They 
 lost ground in the difficult bit of country into 
 which their ardour had hurried them, while 
 the tardy ones gathered on the ridge and cut 
 across the lane in a rejoicing body, coming up 
 in time to fall in close and witness the end of 
 the run, after missing out the middle. 
 
 Gay lost that. While hounds were running 
 182
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 into their fox below the railway, swooping 
 over the line in front of an engine that for 
 an instant seemed dashing into them, but was 
 pulled up within a yard; while their baying 
 awoke the echoes and proclaimed that the 
 run was over, he was stooping over a figure 
 that lay dreadfully still in the trampled grass; 
 and his face was white. 
 
 She had ridden pluckily in a piteous effort 
 to satisfy the man who had chosen to stigma- 
 tise her as spiritless and a coward. She was 
 afraid of the chestnut and the chestnut knew 
 it; and still she had stuck to him. An unsafe 
 beast, swift as the wind, but as uncertain. 
 He had taken it into his head to refuse this 
 fence, and then, as Judy put him at it again, 
 had rushed at it like a demon. She could not 
 steady him; he crashed blindly into it, break- 
 ing the timber like matchwood, staggering 
 up and away. And Judy lay quite still. 
 
 The rest had vanished. Few of them had 
 been as far up, and as the fox turned they had 
 all swept round. The noise of galloping grew 
 fainter and fainter, and died away. And then 
 came the baying of hounds; the finish. . . . 
 
 "She's not dead; she's not dead," repeated 
 the man, scarcely believing himself, and 
 touched her. He had seen many falls, but 
 
 183
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 none that had smitten him with such un- 
 reasonable dread. But she was breathing; 
 her heart was beating; she was only stunned. 
 
 He looked round. 
 
 It was one of his fields they had run over, 
 and yonder stood his house. Without the 
 wit to consider any other course, he lifted her 
 up and carried her over the darkening fields 
 towards it, his hunter following to his stable 
 like a dog. The chestnut was away, flaunt- 
 ing loose after the rest, until somebody should 
 catch him. 
 
 Her weight was nothing . . . but the limp 
 little hands, the colourless face, were heavy 
 on his heart. 
 
 Once on the way she sighed. And he stum- 
 bled and held her closer, the one precious 
 thing in the world. 
 
 There was nobody in the house as he walked 
 into it with his burden. His tread clang 
 hollow in the passage, his call brought no 
 answer. And he did not call again, but laid 
 her down on the great sofa in his sitting-room 
 and dropped on his knees beside her, loosening 
 the tie folded round her throat with fingers 
 that were unsteady at their office. 
 
 He didn't in the least know what he ought 
 to do for her; she was so slight, so fragile, so 
 184
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 different to a man. . . . And when her lids 
 lifted slowly his heart jumped and stood 
 still. 
 
 "Are you hurt?" he stammered. She 
 began to shudder. 
 
 "Oh, the horse- she said brokenly. 
 
 "I am a coward ... I am a coward. . . ." 
 
 Gay took her hands in his; the little limp 
 hands that had no strength in them, the slim, 
 slim wrists. 
 
 "Hush," he said. "It's all over; you're 
 safe." 
 
 Her half-conscious terror forsook her; her 
 sobbing breath quieted. 
 
 "Oh, I was so frightened," she said, holding 
 on to his hand. 
 
 That any man could look on her without 
 tenderness - - ! It was unthinkable. He 
 watched her pale lips parting at last in a won- 
 dering, wistful smile. 
 
 "I am not broken, am I ? What am I 
 doing here ?" 
 
 "I brought you here in my madness," said 
 Gay stupidly. 
 
 "Your house. ... I am in your house . . ." 
 she said in a dreaming whisper. It was no 
 more strange to her, but no more real than at 
 that moment it was to him. 
 
 185
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 How quickly the dusk was creeping into the 
 room; how the firelight glistened; how good 
 it was to dream. . . . 
 
 But the man's voice, troubled, came to her, 
 shook her dizzy fancy that she had wandered 
 here in a world of comforting sleep. 
 
 "You're fainting," he said. "You're in 
 pain." 
 
 His cry was sharp with reality. It called 
 her to herself. t With a swift effort she stood 
 up and looked at him; saw him far off and 
 very close. 
 
 "I am all right," she said; "only sick and 
 -giddy." 
 
 The room danced round her as she spoke, 
 and she thought she laughed, because some- 
 body was laughing, and it was not the man 
 looking at her with a grave face, whose shoulder 
 was her support. 
 
 "Stay there a little while. Rest," he said, 
 and her head sank on the sofa cushion; her 
 eyes shut on their dizziness. 
 
 Gay stood looking down on her, still un- 
 balanced by the wild moment of fear for her. 
 It had seemed so natural to carry her in here; 
 he had forgotten, so possessed was he by the 
 thought of her, that she did not belong to him. 
 And now the unutterable sweetness of her 
 186
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 presence in his house warned him of its 
 danger. 
 
 She was only shaken. He must take her 
 home before he lost hold on himself and broke 
 into foolishness. Who in the vulgar, gossiping 
 outside world would understand his raging 
 hopelessness, his longing to keep her from 
 the man who was by the cruelty of circum- 
 stances miscalled her husband ? He dared 
 not let himself think of that. . . . 
 
 It gripped him, mastered him. He went 
 over to her and laid his hand on her hair. 
 
 She gave a little shivering sigh. 
 
 "Judy ' he said. He had never called 
 her by her name before. He was half afraid 
 of the sound of it on his lips. 
 
 And she looked up at him, her eyes im- 
 ploring. 
 
 "I ... I want to be good," she said. 
 
 No. Nothing ignoble should touch her. . . . 
 
 He left her, and went over to the door. 
 
 "I'll take you home," he said. 
 
 187
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 " TS it dangerous?" said Judy. 
 
 A She stood up in the motor, the bitter 
 wind blowing back her long blue veil, gazing 
 down the hillside. 
 
 Behind towered the imitation battlements 
 of Little Belvoir, that mock castle set high in 
 the midst of its hanging wood. All down the 
 Broughton hill cars were whizzing, manoeu- 
 vring clumsily in at the gate and blundering 
 into position inside the field, where a black 
 swarm of spectators clustered, thronging thick- 
 est round the flapping sides of two or three 
 luncheon tents. 
 
 It was the kind of weather that belongs to a 
 steeplechase, no sun, no enervating mildness, 
 but a dull sky and a threatening whistle in the 
 wind, penetrating through the heaviest over- 
 coat, stinging the blood and driving its reckless- 
 ness into man and beast. It was a drying, 
 withering wind, the forerunner of a frost. 
 
 188
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 Judy's great black car was drawn up a little 
 way from the others. She caught the chang- 
 ing drift of discussion as men went stamping 
 up and down in her neighbourhood, keeping 
 themselves warm; and watched the horses 
 passing delicately through the groups of 
 admirers; heard a buzz of voices further off, 
 and nodded when anybody came within 
 greeting distance. She was ashamed of her 
 nervousness, and looked for reassurance to 
 Tokenhouse when he came sauntering over 
 the trampled grass, wrapped in a long coat 
 and wearing his woollen comforter. He 
 seemed the one unexcited person, the one to 
 whom all this was a curious, empty show. 
 
 "Dangerous?" he repeated. "Not par- 
 ticularly. You've been watching the farmer's 
 race, with your heart in your mouth at all the 
 empty saddles ? But they're used to falling 
 off. They know how. There's one old chap 
 I know used to ride regularly, and when he 
 came to anything he hadn't a liking for you 
 could see him kick his feet out of the stirrups. 
 He used to say he guessed the old horse could 
 tackle it best alone." 
 
 He was looking down and away over the 
 improvised course, so terrible to the in- 
 experienced, and his eye kindled. 
 
 189
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 Starting three fields on the other side of 
 the turnpike and crossing it low down, it ran 
 past the lodge in the bottom, over the Green- 
 hills lane, rising on the further hill until it 
 swept round the clump of trees on the sky- 
 line and turned, coming back over the lane 
 again to finish just underneath the watchers, 
 who from their post on the hillside could 
 track the flags all the way. There had been 
 no tinkering at the fences to speak of; they 
 were rough and ragged; and all of the way 
 was grass. 
 
 "Ah," he said thoughtfully, "it's like old 
 times. . . ." 
 
 Judy leaned to him anxiously. 
 
 "I heard them say," she confided, "that 
 the ditch was a deathtrap." 
 
 "Oh," said Tokenhouse, smiling at her 
 hushed voice, "and it scared you? Non- 
 sense. There are only two ugly places and 
 that's one of them, but you mustn't magnify 
 its importance. Why, it makes a man extra 
 careful. You never heard of a bad fall at a 
 really difficult leap, either in a race or hunt- 
 ing. Walk down with me to that ditch and 
 see for yourself what a lot of trouble they 
 take to get over." 
 
 But Judy drew back. 
 190
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "No," she said. "I would rather not. I 
 can see it all from here." 
 
 Tokenhouse looked at her whimsically. 
 
 "Won't you come?" he said. "I'll prom- 
 ise you nobody shall be hurt. At least, not 
 desperately. It isn't a donkey race. . . ." 
 
 But as she would not he went off by himself, 
 looking back once or twice and waving his 
 stick at her; and his place at her side was 
 taken by the Babes, who came racing up, re- 
 turning to their allegiance after the distracting 
 thrills of the farmer's race, happy and lo- 
 quacious. 
 
 "Wish we had gone in for it," said Pinner. 
 " Did you see 'em go down like nine-pins ? 
 Any one of our gees could have worn them 
 down. I did want to have a try, but Stokes 
 was afraid it would get into the papers. 
 We've an awful reputation for industry to keep 
 up, and if they heard of us larking at steeple- 
 chases it would be fatal. The thing-um-bob 
 says it's going to report our progress from 
 time to time to its readers." 
 
 "It's nervous work farming with the Press 
 on your mind," said Stokes. His freckled 
 face took on an owlish look of solemnity befitting 
 the thought, but under it lurked a grin. They 
 were hanging on to the car, one on each side, 
 
 191
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 as if they expected it to plunge forward down 
 the hill. 
 
 "They wired last week for our bill of fare," 
 said Pinner, "but we're getting into the game; 
 we were quite composed. It's a solemn 
 thought that everybody all over England 
 knows that we have bacon and eggs for break- 
 fast, and for dinner mostly a frugal chop 
 (that's one of their adjectives, we only sup- 
 plied the mutton). They printed it next 
 door to the menu of a public banquet and 
 pointed a tremendous moral." 
 
 "Some day they'll demand our ledgers," 
 said Stokes. "That's the worst of it. A 
 horrid, bald statement of profit and loss." 
 
 "We'd get along all right," said Pinner 
 hopefully, "if we didn't get stuck with such 
 queer creatures. I'd no idea that animals 
 varied so. We've had an hysterical cow on 
 the premises since Tuesday, and Johnson com- 
 plains he can't get a wink of sleep." 
 
 "We were going to ask if she kept you 
 awake?" said Stokes. 
 
 They both looked solicitously at Judy, re- 
 marking her paleness. 
 
 She wished she had gone down with Token- 
 house to stand close to that jump that was so 
 dangerous. Surely she was unwarrantably 
 192
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 nervous. . . . And she had nothing to excuse 
 her but a premonition, a silly terror of some 
 intangible, awful thing. 
 
 Nobody else was afraid. Other women 
 passed, chattering; gathered on the hillock 
 below her clapping their hands and applauding 
 the men they knew. They never turned away 
 their eyes when a horse went down. . . . 
 
 "It's the red-coat race they are at next," 
 said Stokes. "Your race I mean, you know, 
 the one Major Lauder rides in. It's between 
 him and Gay. None of the others have got 
 a chance. That's what everybody says." 
 
 "Here they come," said Pinner. 
 
 A ripple passed along the crowd, and through 
 them came six or seven riders in their hunting 
 clothes, bright in the sombre landscape, on 
 their way to the starting-post. Burkinshaw 
 was leading, jolly and self-satisfied, turning a 
 deaf ear to Maria's injunctions, mounted on a 
 respectable hunter, who could be trusted not 
 to put a foot wrong, but would probably take 
 her time; next to him came a pale young man 
 on a chestnut that was palpably despising 
 him; and then Lauder, passing with neither 
 look nor word for his wife, his face heavily 
 determined, his jaw set, riding the raking bay 
 that he had sworn to bring home first. After 
 o i 93
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 him Gay went down on his brown mare 
 Fanny, who flirted past with a deceiving 
 pretence of slightness, more blood than bone. 
 Then came the ruck, the others that did not 
 count to Judy, who leaned forward, watching 
 the small procession wind its way down the 
 hill, cross into the fields beyond, and grow 
 less and less in the distance. 
 
 Tokenhouse had posted himself at the brook. 
 He found Lord Robert and one or two more 
 inspecting it, and a veterinary standing under 
 the hedge close by shaking his head. 
 
 It was a bad place. At one end it was an 
 ordinary ditch, at the other it widened into a 
 pond; and the hedge was on the landing side. 
 
 Hurdles had been put up on the take-off side, 
 and the men riding down to the barrier 
 matted with gorse and thorns could not see 
 what they were jumping into, could not judge 
 the immense leap they might have to clear. 
 
 "What do you think of this?" said Lord 
 Robert. "Huskinson calls it murder. It's 
 asking a horse to rise to a hurdle and giving 
 him what's impossible to clear and then 
 receiving him on a row of pointed stakes. 
 Look at that damned hedge ! He's had 
 two horses to doctor and one to shoot; and 
 
 194
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 I've pulled out a few of these infernal sticks 
 myself. I don't care what official idiots 
 left them in." 
 
 "Yes; it's nasty," said Tokenhouse. 
 
 "Nasty? Rather!" exclaimed Lord Rob- 
 ert. "The men on the right fly over the nar- 
 row bit; the rest take a pond and fall back 
 into the water, or stake their horses if the 
 poor brutes get as far as the bank." 
 
 "You take your chance," said Tokenhouse, 
 walking round to occupy a position in the lee 
 of the hedge beside the others. 
 
 "Oh, I dare say it's nothing to a man 
 with your dare-devil recollections," said Lord 
 Robert. "That ugly horse of Sophia's wants 
 handling. I am backing Fanny, though the 
 weight's a good deal for her to carry thirteen 
 stone. I should think you and Gay rode 
 about the same." 
 
 "Within a pound or two," said Tokenhouse 
 absently. The wind swirled round and caught 
 them, blowing off Lord Robert's hat. He 
 jammed it down over his nose and stood in 
 closer. 
 
 "Brings the tears into your eyes," he 
 grumbled. "How long are they going to 
 keep us shivering on the watch ? I've been 
 telling Gay to keep a sharp eye on Lauder.
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 Shouldn't be surprised at anything. You'd 
 think his winning this trumpery race was a 
 matter of life and death. I never saw a 
 man so keen. Of course, it's to curry favour 
 with the implacable Sophia." 
 
 "He was always a bad loser," said Token- 
 house. 
 
 Lord Robert looked at him rather closely. 
 
 "Doesn't all this carry you back to old 
 times?" he said. "Don't you want to be up 
 and doing ? Ah, wait till you feel the wind of 
 them passing- -!" 
 
 "They are off," said the vet. 
 
 The horses came over the first fence all in a 
 line like a flight of birds. At the second jump 
 it was a broken line, and the thudding hoofs 
 sounded louder. Down the middle of the field 
 they came, straight for the formidable ditch. 
 They were all bearing down, hanging on the 
 right, but there was not room, and they spread. 
 
 Splash ! The man on the left was in and his 
 neighbour, seeing a horrid gulf yawning under 
 him, swung round in the air, leaping sideways, 
 cleared hurdles and water and hedge in a 
 tremendous bound, cannoning against another 
 man landing on his right with an impact 
 that knocked him over. 
 
 196
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "Look out!'* yelled Lord Robert as the 
 Slipper, like a great cat, leapt over, just missing 
 the fallen man. "Damn it all, did you see 
 Lauder's face ? He knows it's Gay that's 
 down." 
 
 Fanny had recovered herself before her 
 rider; she was unhurt. She staggered up, 
 shook herself, and was starting off alone, as 
 Tokenhouse caught her bridle. 
 
 "Good old girl," he said. "Good old 
 girl. . . ." 
 
 His voice was hoarse and funny. An 
 overmastering impulse had wiped out in that 
 one moment the last two years. With neither 
 whip nor spur he threw himself into the 
 saddle. It had come back; it had all come 
 back. . . . 
 
 An extraordinary exultation filled his soul, 
 blotting out its captivity, possessing him with a 
 sense of power restored. The wind was sharp 
 and salt in his mouth; its whistle shrilled past 
 him like the note of his own triumph. He 
 felt as if he had come back to life. 
 
 He had left two horses struggling in the 
 unjumpable end of the ditch. There were 
 four in front, bundling over the low hedge, 
 a little demoralised by what they had left 
 behind. The brown mare went smooth as 
 
 197
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 silk, leaning on a hand that had not lost its 
 cunning, feeling the electric pressure of his 
 knees. Not for nothing had Tokenhouse 
 been known as the finest rider of his day. 
 
 Last, but gaining at every stride, she flicked 
 in and out of the road and went swooping on 
 over the straight meadows in the bottom. 
 Away up on the hillside rose a murmur, gath- 
 ering into a marvelling shout as conjecture 
 spread. Tokenhouse smiled to himself at that 
 and at the amazed gasp of the man he was 
 overhauling. Since he had begun he would 
 stick to it; he would win. 
 
 The fields slid past; the fences rose up and 
 sank. They were over the Greenhill lane, 
 breasting the tiring rise. Another horse was 
 down, one dropped back; there were only 
 three of them in it as they gained the brow of 
 the hill and swung round wide of the haystack 
 and the bunch of trees. The chestnut was 
 beat; he had gone too wildly, and now his 
 rider called on him in vain. Sophia Eland's 
 great bay was leading, going his hardest. 
 Lauder had sent him along all the way. And 
 the mare was sliding up to him. It was a 
 battle between the two. 
 
 Memories seized hold of Tokenhouse, almost 
 blurring the swift realities of the present. 
 198
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 The last race he had ridden came back to him 
 with a clearness he had not felt since its catas- 
 trophe dropped a curtain between him and 
 what had been himself. Yesterday and to-day 
 clashed together in his mind. He looked once, 
 strangely, at the other man, as side by side 
 they galloped on. There was in Lauder's face 
 a fury, the amazement of a man who saw him- 
 self thwarted by the works of the devil. 
 
 And so they came to the third fence from 
 the finish, a bad one with a drop into boggy 
 ground. The bay was still going tremendously, 
 but he could not keep it up much longer, and 
 he had nothing in hand to get home with. If 
 Fanny got over this jump first the race was hers. 
 And she would. . . . 
 
 What was the matter with Lauder ? He was 
 hanging back in the last few strides. What 
 move was in his head ? 
 
 A curious knowledge of what was coming 
 gripped Tokenhouse. He knew. . . . 
 
 Up went the mare, and the bay shot in on 
 her inside, rising with her; but before he could 
 strike her Tokenhouse pulled her back, just 
 missing Lauder's knee. The desperate trick 
 had failed. 
 
 " By God ! " he cried out, in his voice 
 199
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 of two years ago. "You don't do that 
 twice ! " 
 
 And then the bay landed heavily, slithering 
 in the bog, and the mare was gallantly making 
 her rush home. Tokenhouse was flying on over 
 the last two fences with the race in his hands. 
 
 He rode in to frantic shouting, a strange 
 spectacle, his long coat flapping, his trousers 
 rucked to his knees. All the world was running 
 to meet him, welcoming, betwixt laughter and 
 emotion, his astonishing resurrection. 
 
 "And you wouldn't do it for me," said Sophia 
 Bland. 
 
 Tokenhouse dropped to the ground and 
 leaned against the mare's heaving side, hearing 
 like a man in his sleep the chorus of acclamation. 
 A sweat broke out on his forehead, his limbs 
 trembled under him; he was shaken by a 
 mental sickness of reaction. 
 
 "I don't know who I did it for," he said. 
 "Upon my soul, Sophia, I don't know how I 
 could." 
 
 With a dazed expression he submitted to the 
 popular ovation, shut in on all sides by a hilari- 
 ous crowd of familiar faces, by men wringing his 
 hand and hiding the warmth of their feelings 
 under universal chaff at his unorthodox get-up. 
 
 300
 
 "Look at him," said Lord Robert, who had 
 whisked up on the vet's pony to see the finish, 
 and whose eyes were still starting out of his 
 head. "Never even took off his old com- 
 forter. Just hopped up and sailed away. 
 It was more than sporting; it was positively 
 unearthly." 
 
 "He'll want it," said another man. "He'll 
 want every ounce of weight if he is to turn the 
 scale. And he didn't even stop for Gay's 
 whip- 
 
 "No, he didn't stop for any mortal thing," 
 said Lord Robert, striking his hands together. 
 "Poor old Burkinshaw gave up when he be- 
 held him. He declares the sight of him forging 
 up like a violent ghost shook him out of his 
 saddle. Says he just tumbled off and lay 
 staring after him open-mouthed." 
 
 "We didn't believe our eyes up here," said 
 another; " but when we knew him you never 
 heard such an uproar!" 
 
 "The doctor says Gay has broken a rib or 
 two and hurt his shoulder," said Lord Robert; 
 "but I believe he's just weak with laughing." 
 
 There were no plaudits to spare for the 
 second horse, no sympathy with his unpopular 
 rider. Sophia Bland, making one of the pro- 
 cession escorting Tokenhouse to the weigh- 
 
 M
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 ing tent, seemed to have forgotten her own ill- 
 fortune. But as Lauder pushed his way up tc 
 her side her eyes flickered strangely, her mouth 
 grew hard. 
 
 "You break all your promises, Bill," she said. 
 
 That was her attitude. It struck him that 
 she was exulting in his defeat, although it was 
 her horse that had lost purely because it 
 gave her an opportunity to taunt him. His 
 bid for forgiveness had failed ignominiously; 
 he had not succeeded in carrying out his boast. 
 And Sophia was not inclined to spare him. 
 She had played with him, let him live awhile 
 in false hopes of a truce between them. 
 Had she wanted to humiliate him again r 
 There was no plumbing the bitterness of a 
 woman. 
 
 "I'll buy that horse of you," he said thickly. 
 "I'll buy him at any price." 
 
 "With your wife's money?" she asked. 
 "What do you want him for?" 
 
 Her scornful glance crossed his look, black 
 as thunder. 
 
 "To shoot him," said Lauder between his 
 teeth. 
 
 He pushed on, savage with the world, thirst- 
 ing for a quarrel, and burst in that blind rage 
 into the circle pressing on the winner. 
 
 202
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "Did you accuse me of riding you down?" 
 he said. 
 
 The men standing round Tokenhouse stared 
 at him; their looks were all unfriendly. Here 
 was a man who could not take defeat like a 
 gentleman, who had not the decency to mask 
 his fury of disappointment. 
 
 "No," said Tokenhouse. "I told you you 
 should not do it twice." 
 
 "What do you mean by that ?" said Lauder. 
 The hostility round him made no difference to 
 him. His manner was truculent; he was not 
 at all master of himself. 
 
 "Only," said Tokenhouse, "that the ride has 
 refreshed my memory, which has been poor. 
 I know now to whose tactics I owe a misfortune 
 that put me out of the running two years ago." 
 
 His words fell on a silence, upset as he con- 
 cluded by the bystanders' hasty interposition 
 between him and the other man. His face was 
 impassive, his tone unexcited as he spoke to 
 the adversary choking with incoherent rage. 
 
 "We'll have no rows here," said Lord Rob- 
 ert. "That'll do, Lauder. Go and consult 
 your solicitor if you want to fight. . . . The 
 man is beside himself. ... I say, Token- 
 house, was that gospel ?" 
 
 "My opinion," said Tokenhouse quietly. 
 203
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "Well, he brought it on himself," said Lord 
 Robert. "Where's he gone ? Strikes me you'll 
 want a bodyguard." 
 
 But it was unaccompanied that the hero of 
 the last race found his way at length through 
 the confusion of people getting ready for de- 
 parture, to the solitary figure in the great black 
 motor. The Babes had left her, having hur- 
 ried off at the first intimation to the scene of 
 Gay's disaster, promising to come back with 
 news, but entirely forgetting in their pre- 
 occupation. Lauder had not been near her. 
 And her face was turned away from the multi- 
 tude. She was gazing down the hillside with 
 a strained intentness that missed all that went 
 on around her. Almost it seemed as if she 
 must have been unconscious of his return in 
 triumph. The blue veil fluttered round her 
 head, and mechanically she lifted her hand 
 from time to time, brushing it away. As 
 Tokenhouse addressed her she turned to him 
 with a start, and he saw that her eyes were 
 brimming and wild with tears. 
 
 "What is the matter, my child?" he said. 
 
 She stretched out her hands to him; he felt 
 them quiver, saw her lip quivering in a sob. 
 
 "Is he badly hurt?" she said. 
 204
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "Who, Gay?" said Tokenhouse. "No, not 
 badly." 
 
 With an odd shock he realised that agonised 
 watch that had made her careless of his ex- 
 ploit. To her he was still the confidential 
 nonentity, the whimsical friend and adviser who 
 had nothing to do in life. Well, it was better so. 
 
 "I was afraid," she said piteously. "I 
 thought he must be dying." 
 
 "Hush," he said. "Don't cry. Don't be- 
 tray yourself. They are bringing him now; 
 you'll see him. . . ." 
 
 Judy clung to his hand, rinding strength in 
 its painful grasp. 
 
 "Where were you all this time?" she said. 
 "I thought you would never come back." 
 
 He could not smile at her ignorance of what 
 he had got through in the twenty minutes since 
 he waved his hand to her on the hill. 
 
 All that had been a blank to her; she had 
 been deaf to the crowd's enthusiasm, her eyes 
 unseeing, her spirit with the man who had 
 fallen. His own thoughts were curious. 
 
 "That's right," he said, comforting her. 
 "Be a brave girl and don't give way. You 
 mustn't imagine things are as bad as that. 
 Why, a fall is nothing ! " 
 
 "Are you sure?" she said, still troubled, 
 205
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 but trusting, all her secret printed in that gaze 
 of tragic frankness. 
 
 "Sure," said Tokenhouse. 
 
 People were drifting that way, packing them- 
 selves into the cars, getting on to their horses. 
 Lord Robert strolled up, hunting for his 
 party. 
 
 "Can't find my burdens," he said. "I'm 
 giving a lift to half the population and I can't 
 collect them. The stout ones have to be started 
 on; they've to walk up the Broughton hill, or 
 the car will slide down backwards and land 
 us at the bottom. Look at these unfortu- 
 nates grinding and churning the gateway into 
 a quagmire. We shall be blocked in this field 
 till the Day of Judgment. Are you coming on 
 with me, Tokenhouse, or will you go home with 
 Gay ? There he is, pale and interesting, in the 
 Brocktons' car. We'll give him a cheer, Mrs. 
 Lauder, though he only won by favour of his 
 lodger." 
 
 Somebody had lent his motor to bring Gay, 
 and it came up slowly, with the Babes hanging 
 on to it, half in, half out, and halted below the 
 gate, waiting to pass. 
 
 "He doesn't look much the worse," said 
 Lord Robert. "Broken three ribs, they tell 
 206
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 me, and bruised his shoulder. You'll be able 
 to nurse him, Tokenhouse; no dangerous im- 
 portations. If you'll believe me, Mrs. Lauder, 
 the risk of complications that a man runs 
 is awful. I'm susceptible myself; I know how 
 it is when you're laid on the flat of your back. 
 I make a point of calling out before I lose 
 consciousness, 'Mind you pick out a plain one.' 
 Not the doctor, of course, the nurse; though 
 it's not an infallible precaution. Here's your 
 Anarchist wandering back to his engine. Let's 
 walk on to the gate while he turns this thing 
 and explodes it over these lumpy fur- 
 rows." 
 
 Judy looked wistfully at Tokenhouse. 
 
 "Yes, come on as far as the gate," he said, 
 and she descended. Lord Robert fell into step 
 on her other side, but she was not listening to 
 his prattle. 
 
 "I know a sad case," he said. "A diplo- 
 matist too, not one of us simple sportsmen. 
 He was dangerously ill, and his sister, who 
 presided over him generally and knew his 
 weaknesses, went down on her knees to the 
 specialist who was operating and said her 
 brother must have male nurses. But the great 
 man wouldn't hear of it. He said the case 
 was too delicate, that the patient would die 
 
 207
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 if he was left to the rough tending of a man. 
 However, he said there was positively no 
 cause for anxiety, for he had a nurse on his 
 staff who was over forty and the plainest 
 woman he had ever seen. 'Show her to me,' 
 said the suspicious sister; and when he had 
 done so she fell on his neck and said, 'She will 
 do.' In six months that poor diplomatist had 
 married her and ruined his career. Ah, its 
 not surprising we helpless men have a terror of 
 influenza." 
 
 He talked on with the dry irrelevance it 
 pleased him to affect, as the three of them 
 walked over to the gate. Perhaps if he had 
 been interrogated he would have put down his 
 motive in sticking to them as curiosity not 
 by any means admitting a desire to stand by 
 Tokenhouse who, still posing as a disembodied 
 phantom, saw no reason to drop his post as an 
 ally of Mrs. Lauder on the top of that en- 
 counter with the man himself. These phi- 
 losophers were imprudent. And if Lauder in 
 his mad humour should rush upon him, the 
 situation was not one to be missed. He 
 chuckled, keeping a shrewd look-out, but not 
 allowing his boasted curiosity to scan too 
 nearly the little pale face under the motoring 
 bonnet, to ask what was hurrying her faltering 
 208
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 but almost running step. No one who knew 
 Lord Robert would have believed it of him, 
 but he had it in him to be discreet. 
 
 As Judy, between her two supporters, reached 
 the gateway, it was impassable. A heavy car 
 had stuck midway, and its human freight had 
 tumbled out and were tugging and pushing, 
 enlisting help, ignoring the public laughter and 
 the impatience of those behind. 
 
 "She'll never loose 'ee, t'Broughton clay," 
 shouted a farmer, riding five abreast in his 
 market cart, bulging out on the splashboard; 
 and a gust of merriment ran along the string 
 of waiting vehicles. Tokenhouse looked over 
 the hedge. 
 
 "We are prisoners," he called out to Gay. 
 "How are you ?" 
 
 And Judy saw him, but was not seen. 
 
 He was propped up in the car, outwardly 
 undamaged save for a scratched face; and 
 he was answering all inquiries with a grin 
 that turned sympathy into appreciation of 
 his pluck. As Tokenhouse looked over into 
 the road he moved suddenly, winced, and tried 
 to laugh as a man should at that reminder. 
 
 "Come over and tell me all about the race," 
 he said. "I am pinned here, you see. Oh, 
 I heard the shouting; it would have reached 
 p 209
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 me if I had been deaf and dead and I've 
 heard a dozen versions. I want yours, you 
 old impostor. Don't look so serious; I haven't 
 been kicked to pieces. And if I had - 
 he broke off with the laugh that hurt, but was 
 the only way he could show emotion " it's 
 worth it." 
 
 The Babes, dangling at the side of the car, 
 had dropped to the ground, looking, awe- 
 struck, at Tokenhouse. Judy, shielded from 
 sight by his tall, spare figure, comforted by 
 one glimpse, felt the tears she had checked 
 blinding her again. Why did he say it was 
 worth it ? Worth it. ... He did not know 
 what those awful minutes had been like, how 
 madly her heart was beating at his voice. 
 And because she could not bear to let him dis- 
 cover, she turned and stumbled away alone 
 across the trampled grass. 
 
 The men did not follow her. Either they 
 guessed, or were ignorantly merciful, and 
 forbore. But somebody intercepted her, some 
 acquaintance asking if she were seeking for her 
 husband and then Burkinshaw crossed her 
 path, hailing her in his good-natured bass. 
 
 " My wife's looking for you, Judy." Maria's 
 searching was always done by proxy. "She 
 says you are to come back with us and stay 
 
 2IO
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 the night. Don't wait for Lauder; nobody 
 knows where he's gone." 
 
 "Thanks awfully. I I can't," said Judy. 
 She was afraid of herself, and wanted to be 
 alone with the strange woman she had be- 
 come. She could not face spying kindness. 
 
 A little further another person accosted her, 
 diffident before her bewildered look that scarcely 
 seemed to see him. 
 
 "Mrs. Burkinshaw is waiting for you. 
 She asked me to find you and bring you to 
 her." 
 
 "I am going home," said Judy, so wildly 
 that he fell back. 
 
 Her own car suddenly upreared itself, lum- 
 bering over the rise towards her, and she 
 stopped in her wandering haste. A man 
 talking to the chauffeur came up, repeating 
 the absurd formula that seemed to haunt her 
 steps. She brushed him aside. 
 
 Maria had been unlucky in her emissaries, 
 who all returned to her unsuccessful. Her 
 orders had been laconic. "Fetch her to me," 
 issued with no misgiving that Judy's gentleness 
 would dare to disregard her mandate. Each 
 man as he came back, apologetic, increased 
 her wrath. 
 
 "Dear me," she said. "You are helpless, 
 
 211
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 all of you. Any one would think I'd sent 
 you to capture a little dragon. How am I 
 to leave the girl ? Dicky says Lauder is 
 half demented. She can't go back with him. 
 . . . She is my cousin. . . . Rather late in 
 the day to awake to my duties ? Not at all, 
 Augusta. She was quite safe in the crowd of 
 us; he wasn't at all likely to go near her. 
 Besides, I forgot her till Tokenhouse reminded 
 me. I said I'd take her away with us. Really, 
 I am anxious about her. Where is that man ?" 
 
 "Lauder has left," said one of her am- 
 bassadors. "Someone saw him riding through 
 the gate." 
 
 Maria's conscience, weighted as it was by a 
 heavy fur coat and her own portliness, became 
 less active. And they were blocking the way. 
 
 "If you can't persuade her," she said re- 
 signed, "I suppose we had better start." 
 
 It only pricked her slightly as their heavier 
 progress up the interminable hill was rivalled 
 and passed by the large black uncovered car 
 carrying one solitary] passenger; and her 
 gesticulation was lost on the dimming mys- 
 teries of a blue gauze veil. Maria did not 
 have presentiments. She had done her part 
 and was satisfied. 
 
 212
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 TOKENHOUSE banked up his fire. He 
 was stiff and tired but disinclined 
 for sleep. It was freezing without; there 
 was no wind in the chimney, no rattling of 
 shutters, and the house was quiet. The Crows 
 had had their nightly procession of locking 
 up, a rite that Mrs. Crow never attempted to 
 perform alone, lacking heart. When Crow 
 was absent she left it to the casual prudence 
 of the master or his lodger, excusing herself 
 with the illogical plea that her fear of thieves 
 was too lively. Clattering the bars into place 
 in the eerie silence was like an invocation; 
 they might spring in upon her. . . . All 
 she did was to set a bucket of water outside 
 her bedroom door. Whether in case of fire 
 or in the hope of tripping the enemy she 
 never explained. Crow himself, the prodigal, 
 padding upstairs one night in his stocking 
 soles, was the only mortal who had ever 
 stumbled over it, a half-drowned witness 
 
 213
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 to its efficacy. He assuredly turned and 
 fled. 
 
 There was no shrill singing in the kitchen 
 regions. Mrs. Crow was only a nightingale 
 when deserted. Moreover, she and her hus- 
 band had retired. 
 
 A summer night has no stillness; it is too 
 full of living things, leaves and grasses breathing 
 and birds that are never all asleep. But 
 now and again in the winter fall nights utterly 
 silent, as if the earth had been frightened and 
 lost its pulse. The world as it were is lifeless 
 in the clasp of its own ghost. It was so to- 
 night. 
 
 Tokenhouse sat on, smoking his eternal 
 cigarette, smiling a little sardonically, a little 
 absently, taking a reminiscent look at him- 
 self. 
 
 To-day's unexpectedness had thrown open a 
 closed book. He took down that history 
 from its dusty shelf, turning over its odd 
 chapters. Why, he had half forgotten what 
 kind of a man he was once. 
 
 Dispassionately he allowed himself an amused 
 retrospection. Memories crowded on him, al- 
 most too many of them, jostling each other. 
 Once or twice he laughed aloud. 
 214
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 It was mightily entertaining to look back 
 upon, but history was the word, not politics; 
 it was done. That momentary spark had only 
 served to recall old, old extinguished fires. 
 Still, it was pleasant to feel that unaccustomed 
 ache in his muscles; to know that he could, 
 at a pinch, astonish people yet. 
 
 Into the deadly quietness of the night broke 
 a noise of horse's hoofs. Some belated way- 
 farer, and apparently one ill-fitted to journey 
 in the dark defying obscurity in a reckless 
 gallop along the stony road. At the corner 
 there was a kicking and plunging as if the 
 horse had been ridden into the hedge, and 
 above the stamping hoofs a man's voice rang 
 out swearing horribly at his blunder, making 
 the darkness hideous. 
 
 Tokenhouse heard it distinctly in the house. 
 He thought of throwing up the library window 
 and shouting to the man, probably an intoxi- 
 cated groom; but before he had decided 
 whether it was worth the trouble the disturb- 
 ance had ceased and the irregular gallop was 
 growing distant. 
 
 Gay was moving in his room overhead. 
 The old oaken floor quivered under him he 
 was getting out of bed. 
 
 315
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "What's up?" called Tokenhouse. His 
 shout, muffled by the ceiling, obtained no 
 answer. It sounded as if he were dressing, 
 or at least making an attempt to get at his 
 clothes. The doctor who had ordered him to 
 stay in bed would certainly not authorise his 
 getting up like that. Tokenhouse went up- 
 stairs to investigate, and put his head in at 
 the door. 
 
 " If there's anything you want, why couldn't 
 you thump on the floor?" he said. "Good 
 Lord, man, what are you trying to do ?" 
 
 He was half dressed already, although his 
 face was white with the pain of movement, 
 strapped and bandaged as he was; and he 
 looked with a set, strange face at Tokenhouse. 
 
 "Oh, you couldn't hear," he said. "You 
 don't know who it was passed down by the 
 corner; you didn't catch his blasphemous 
 drunken voice - 
 
 The candle flickered in the draught from 
 the open window. Tokenhouse came into the 
 room and shut it down. 
 
 "It was Lauder, was it ?" he said. 
 
 "Who else?" said Gay. "Going home. 
 Going home to her. Do you understand ?" 
 
 "Gently," said Tokenhouse. "That doc- 
 tor's a fool. He should have known you'd 
 
 216
 
 go on like this. . . . Get back to your bed, 
 Gay. I'll fetch a book and sit up with you 
 for a bit." 
 
 Gay leant against the bedpost, drawing his 
 breath hard between his teeth. 
 
 "It hurts confoundedly," he muttered. 
 
 He looked rational enough, but as Token- 
 house laid a hand on him he broke out passion- 
 ately, throwing off his arm. 
 
 "I've got to protect her," he said; "I'm 
 going. She's alone, I tell you. . . . The 
 brute's not safe ! I'll get to her some- 
 how if it wasn't so difficult." 
 
 "You couldn't help her," said Tokenhouse, 
 reasoning with him; "it's nearly midnight. 
 They wouldn't let you into the house. You'd 
 faint before you reached it." 
 
 Gay broke into gasping, hurting laughter. 
 
 "Oh," he said, "it's not the first time I've 
 broken into that house!" 
 
 And then, as if that memory itself called him 
 back to immediate action, he pulled himself 
 together, the dominating impulse keeping hold 
 on his wandering senses. 
 
 "Poor little girl; poor little girl," he said. 
 "Don't stare at me, Tokenhouse; I'm not 
 delirious. I don't think I am. You didn't 
 hear him cursing. And I've held off; I've 
 
 317
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 never half understood ! I'll go mad unless 
 
 I can get to her in time.*' 
 
 "Quietly," said Tokenhouse, "quietly. If 
 you go there you'll find the house asleep." 
 
 "Do you think he'll let her sleep ?" said Gay 
 fiercely. "Don't you see she is at his mercy?" 
 
 There was no arguing with him. Worn out 
 in body, with a mind wearied by a long effort 
 of endurance, he had been startled out of 
 his uncomfortable dozing, and his unbalanced 
 faculties had seized upon the noise outside; 
 he had worked himself into a fever. 
 
 Tokenhouse interrupted him, his purposely 
 measured tones contrasting with the other's 
 wild utterances. 
 
 "Look here," he said, "you aren't fit for 
 anything. You know you are not, Gay. Go 
 back to bed and and I'll take a turn out- 
 side. I'll go across the fields and listen, if 
 you like and let you know if there is anything 
 wrong. That's a little less mad than for you 
 to go staggering over there. You couldn't 
 do any good in that condition." 
 
 Gay was listening to him, his eyes half 
 closed, coughing, dizzy with the pain to which 
 he would not submit, but which was conquer- 
 ing him. He nodded. 
 
 218
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "Will you go over at once ?" he insisted. 
 "You'll not sit down in the house, pretending 
 you've gone . . . saying to yourself . . . the 
 poor fellow is out of his head; I'll humour him." 
 
 There was an odd mixture of sense and un- 
 reason in his broken words. 
 
 "You can hear me go out," said Tokenhouse. 
 
 "Yes," said Gay, catching at that sugges- 
 tion, "so I can. Hurry, Tokenhouse. I don't 
 mind your going. That pain makes me too 
 slow. And the worst of it is I love her. It's 
 queer that anybody can help a woman except 
 the man who loves her. He can't, you know. 
 It's true. You told me so yourself. . . . Why 
 don't you go ?" 
 
 "I'll see you in bed first," said Tokenhouse, 
 advancing. 
 
 Gay raised his head. His voice had dropped 
 into an incoherent mutter, but suddenly it 
 found strength. He was still leaning against 
 the wooden bedpost, clad in shirt and trousers, 
 one arm in the sleeve of his coat, the other 
 out of its sling. 
 
 "Not till you come back," he said. "Don't 
 stand there like a graven image. I swear if you 
 don't go, I shall." 
 
 And the other man went downstairs. 
 
 He thought of wakening Crow to mount 
 219
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 guard while he was gone, but refrained; the 
 less known of this the better. It would not do 
 to risk having a highly-coloured version spread 
 all over the countryside; in wakening Crow 
 his wife had to be reckoned with. And Gay 
 was not so lightheaded as to make the leaving 
 him dangerous; he was simply possessed by a 
 mastering idea. When Tokenhouse should re- 
 turn and report to him that nothing was amiss, 
 he would, no doubt, yield peaceably to his 
 own exhaustion. 
 
 The chain rattled as he slipped it off the 
 door, and the key turned. It was very dark 
 for so still a night. Tokenhouse stepped over 
 the threshold. 
 
 He had not gone out the back way, because 
 to do so would have been to awaken the dogs 
 kennelled in the yard, but he passed round to 
 that side of the house through the outer 
 paddock. There was a certain fascination 
 in the uninhabited darkness. It made die 
 familiar fields unexplored mysteries, turning 
 the distant wood into a long island of deeper 
 blackness in the uncharted wastes, and giving 
 to a solitary twinkle on the hilltop the signifi- 
 cance of a lighthouse. 
 
 His sole objective being to pacify Gay, it 
 was surely unnecessary to do more than stroll 
 
 220
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 a few hundred yards, perhaps as far as the 
 ridge yonder. Standing there one could 
 dimly track the road, winding like a grey 
 string in its circuitous way to the dark patch 
 that indicated Lauder's house in the hollow, 
 so near by the field-path running through the 
 blurred pastures at his feet. 
 
 He was not the only night wanderer abroad. 
 With a grim sense of amusement he perceived 
 a furtive figure skulking behind the hedge, 
 and could not resist the pleasure of scaring 
 him, but let him go. He had always had an 
 indulgent sympathy for rascals. 
 
 It was time to turn back. Only a man who 
 had been knocked silly, disordered by wild 
 dreams, unmanned by dangerous emotion, 
 could make seriously a proposition so absurd 
 as that he should go on to that house and 
 assure himself that all was well. He had gone 
 far enough. 
 
 And yet. . . . Tokenhouse kept on, the red 
 ash of his cigarette betraying his whereabouts 
 as he fumbled with the latch of a gate. After 
 all, why not ? 
 
 The darkness that hid the path and wrapped 
 the gates in obscurity till he nearly touched 
 them brought the house near. It seemed 
 scarcely a minute before he was treading 
 
 231
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 softly on the gravel, pausing beside the long 
 windows, shuttered but negligently, for a 
 perpendicular streak of light ran down the 
 middle of one of them. The bar had swung 
 wide of its place, and the shutters had fallen 
 an inch or two apart. . . . 
 
 Tokenhouse did not stand there long. He 
 turned away swiftly, taking less care in his 
 retreat; and struck back with a haste that 
 was entirely different to the manner of his 
 approach. He was no longer a man yielding 
 to a fantastic inclination. 
 
 Away in the Pastures a fox barked thrice, 
 and again thrice, but no other answered him. 
 Perhaps it was his call that awakened the dogs 
 at Gay's stables. They lifted up their voices, 
 checked, dying down at once. And again all 
 was quiet. Tokenhouse, bearing to the right 
 as he reached the back of the house, saw that 
 the door on that side had been unfastened. 
 It was the quicker way; he went in softly, 
 guessing what that meant. Gay had not 
 trusted him; he had managed to follow. His 
 room was empty. 
 
 Quietly Tokenhouse came down and looked 
 
 about in the library for a moment. Then he 
 
 started out again. It was strange that he 
 
 should have missed Gay, but then he had not 
 
 222
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 kept to the path; he did not know it so well. 
 And where the land dipped the way was as 
 dark as pitch. . . . 
 
 Behind that ill-shuttered window Judy was. 
 
 She had been comforting herself with 
 music. Of late, she had not had the heart; 
 it stirred her too much, translated restlessness 
 and unhappiness, all she struggled to van- 
 quish, into a language that cried out the 
 truth to her. She played on her heartstrings 
 and they vibrated too intensely to the wailing 
 magic. It was like listening to the cry of her 
 spirit, and made it harder to be brave. 
 
 But to-night the sobbing notes of her 
 violin could not teach her more sadness than 
 she knew, make her heart beat more wildly, 
 asking for the unattainable. As a child loses 
 its pain in crying she tried to lose herself. 
 
 And she looked up, her fingers faltering on 
 a last low note, to find Lauder standing in the 
 doorway. 
 
 He had ridden straight to the stables and 
 come through the back into the house. The 
 servants, shut into their own quarters, were 
 discussing where he had been. His step was 
 not steady as he passed down the long passages 
 into the other end of the house. 
 223
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "Fiddling, are you?" he said. 
 
 His eyes were bloodshot, his speech thick. 
 He turned abruptly and left her, and as he 
 disappeared, leaving the way clear, she put 
 down her violin and fled instinctively, passing 
 like a driven leaf up the stairs. It was not 
 bodily fear, but rather a kind of horror of 
 him that made her rush into her own room 
 and fling herself against the door, locking it, 
 leaning on it, breathless with her flight. 
 
 And then she heard him calling to her to 
 come down. 
 
 Ashamed of her terrified impulse, she un- 
 locked the door and came resolutely to the head 
 of the stairs. He was waiting at the bottom. 
 
 "You ran away," he said. "Come down 
 here." 
 
 She hesitated. There was sinister triumph 
 in his voice. He had come out of the dining- 
 room. He had been drinking brandy. . . . And 
 she was alone with him at this end of the house. 
 Pride forbade her to call the servants. 
 
 Her hand closed on the cold, slippery 
 balustrade. And then, as she gazed at Lauder 
 watching her from below, her mind went 
 back to another night when the hall had been 
 dark this hall, in this house and she had 
 
 224
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 clung so, listening, till a man's face shone in 
 the glimmering light of a match. . . . Un- 
 consciously the clinging hand let go and went 
 up to the pearls at her throat. 
 
 "// / catch you bullying your wife again, 
 I'll kill you." 
 
 The man who had said that could not come 
 to her help. She might call him, he would 
 not hear. But the thought of him steadied 
 her. Why was she trembling ? Oh, surely, 
 surely she was a fool, since she had forgotten 
 how safe she was. The one thing that made 
 life supportable was that look of sullen hatred 
 disfiguring the face of the man below. She 
 had been shrinking from that; shivering at 
 that a hatred that saved her from him, 
 although he was her husband. . . . 
 
 And she came down to him. 
 
 "Ah," he said. "Tou're afraid of me, at 
 least. There's one person left who daren't 
 sneer at me. . . . Why did you stop your 
 fiddling ? Why did you run upstairs, you 
 spiritless little coward?" 
 
 He caught her rudely by the wrist, and she 
 looked up without speaking into his heavy, 
 marred, handsome face. What did he want 
 with her ? Ah, thank God, thank God that 
 he did not love her. . . . 
 Q 225
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "What are you smiling at?" said Lauder. 
 
 Anger took him with the notion that her 
 terror of him was not as absolute as he had 
 fancied. She was such a wisp of a thing in 
 his grasp. The sight of her always roused in 
 him cruel instincts. He owed her too much, 
 gain and loss; and his grudge against her had 
 turned into a kind of a passion. That she 
 should learn at last to brave him was incon- 
 ceivable, but the mere suspicion maddened 
 him. He dragged her across the hall by the 
 arm, and pushed her into the room where he 
 had found her. 
 
 "Pick up your fiddle," he said. 
 
 Mechanically she did his bidding as he 
 released her, and when she turned she saw 
 that he had shut the door. His unsteady eyes 
 were fixed on her with a dreadful meaning. 
 
 "Sophia wouldn't sell me that horse," he 
 said. "I would have shot him. She said it 
 wasn't the brute's fault. After all, she was 
 right. You were the little pale temptress 
 that came between us. Suppose I shoot you 
 instead ?" 
 
 His glare at her was so ruthless that Judy 
 could not be sure that it was a drunken threat. 
 She stood motionless wondering. 
 
 "It's all your doing," he said; "if you 
 226
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 hadn't come and glittered in my eyes, I'd 
 never have failed Sophia. She warned me I 
 couldn't do without her. And she'll never 
 forgive me, do you hear ? You and your 
 accursed money took the manhood out of me. 
 It chokes me. No use my truckling to her, 
 following her like a beaten hound. . . . She'll 
 never forgive me till I am in hell." 
 
 His arm straightened suddenly, menacing 
 her, and Judy, seeing a gleaming barrel, gave a 
 cry. Then then the man was in earnest ? 
 
 "You needn't scream," said Lauder. "You 
 don't imagine anybody could burst in here 
 in time ? I could shoot you a hundred times 
 while the servants were huddling outside the 
 door." 
 
 He paused as if thinking out an idea. 
 
 "Go on with your fiddling," he said. "Play 
 a tune. Play the thing you were at when I 
 came in and scared you. I'll let you finish 
 it, and then I'll make an end of this. D'you 
 understand ?" 
 
 She began to think he was amusing himself 
 with her. It was the uncertainty that was 
 awful. Like one in a dream she lifted her 
 bow and settled the violin under her chin. 
 Her fingers found the strings. 
 
 Lauder had sunk heavily into a chair be- 
 227
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 tween her and the door. He leaned his head 
 on his hand, watching her with the intentness 
 of a man at a play. She could not tell how 
 far he was still himself, how far stimulated by 
 the brandy of which his breath was reeking. 
 His face was darkly red, his eyes were glazing, 
 but always fixed on her; and there was a 
 grinning relentlessness in his mouth. 
 
 She played, measuring no chances, mes- 
 merised, reckless. If this were a trick to drive 
 her into abject terror and gratify his lust for 
 tyranny, or if it were his dreadful earnest, 
 she could not guess. Perhaps the fear he 
 thirsted to inspire had passed in its very 
 extremity into fascination; or perhaps the 
 bodily harm he threatened death itself 
 had come to appear as nothing beside that one 
 burning thought that lifted her up and made 
 all misery evil shadows the thought that 
 this man, who could crush her in his arms 
 and kill her, against whom she had no strength, 
 was her enemy . . . nothing worse. 
 
 And all this while the strings vibrated; the 
 bow quivered across them; her fingers trav- 
 elled nimbly; and her one listener was wait- 
 ing for the music to end. She would know 
 then. . . . 
 
 How was it she could never reach the last 
 228
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 wild note ? She seemed always near it, and 
 yet it never came. Was she doomed to 
 wander for ever in a maze of plaintive melody, 
 unable to find the true, the fatal chord ? 
 
 Her arm ached. She became dimly con- 
 scious that this was strange music she was 
 making, less and less recalling the tune she 
 had begun. As if in a trance she had all un- 
 knowing left it behind; she was improvis- 
 ing. . . . 
 
 How long had she been playing ? How 
 long had Lauder been sitting there with his 
 implacable drunken eyes, watching for her 
 to break down, to cry, to implore him for 
 pity ? Was it she that laughed ? 
 
 He lurched to his feet, but his hands were 
 empty. Had she imagined all that horror, 
 and where was the shining thing that had 
 glistened in his hand ? How ugly his face 
 was now; how distorted. . . . 
 
 "So you're not afraid, are you?" he said. 
 "You laugh at me, too? I'll teach you " 
 
 229
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 "T Y 7AS I a bit queer last night ?" said Gay. 
 
 VV Tokenhouse came into the room 
 with his usual lounging step, and looked at 
 him over the end of the bed. 
 
 "Well," he said, "as a matter of fact, you 
 were." 
 
 "What did I do?" said Gay. 
 
 Tokenhouse did not answer directly. 
 
 "What do you think yourself?" he said. 
 His tone was mildly curious, as if it would 
 be amusing, but not vital, to hear Gay's own 
 idea on a matter of no importance. 
 
 "It sounds awfully mad," said Gay. "But 
 do you know I've a sort of notion I woke up 
 and heard Lauder galloping home, cursing, 
 and got it into my head that he was dangerous 
 and started out to protect her. It's all 
 confused. I remember trying to get over a 
 stile and tumbling back into the ditch and 
 groaning. It was like a bad dream. I didn't 
 get far. You don't, in a nightmare." 
 230
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "No," said Tokenhouse; "you didn't get 
 far/' 
 
 "How did I get back?" said Gay. 
 
 "You've no recollection of that?" said 
 Tokenhouse. 
 
 "None whatever." 
 
 "That is odd. I found you at that stile 
 you mention, and helped you on to your legs 
 and brought you home." 
 
 "By yourself?" said Gay. 
 
 "Why not?" said Tokenhouse. "You 
 don't suppose I had to carry you ? In that 
 case I should have rapped up Crow and put 
 up with his wife's hysterics. They slept 
 through it all. I am going to ask you to hold 
 your tongue about the whole thing. To 
 oblige me; for my personal convenience." 
 
 "Why?" said Gay. 
 
 "It might be awkward for me if it was 
 known that I had been prowling outside at 
 all hours," said Tokenhouse carelessly. "I 
 don't want to shock you, but our neighbour, 
 Lauder, has been found shot." 
 
 "Good heavens!" said Gay. 
 
 He started up in bed with a suddenness that 
 made him flinch. 
 
 "And she- ?" he said, deadly pale. 
 
 "Mrs. Lauder was found lying insensible 
 231
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 in her room," said Tokenhouse quietly. "No, 
 he did not hurt her. The queer thing is they 
 don't seem to know whether he shot himself 
 or not. There was a window broken or open, 
 or something of the kind. It was a black 
 frost and they can't track any footmarks. 
 So you see why I want you to be discreet." 
 
 Gay was trying to grasp the tremendous 
 tale. He looked at the teller blankly. 
 
 "But," he stammered, "it was as bad for 
 me as for you. We were both out " 
 
 "My dear fellow," said Tokenhouse, smiling. 
 "You were not in a condition to shoot a cat. 
 All the world knows you had an accident 
 yesterday, and there's the doctor to swear to 
 all your ribs and contusions and the Lord 
 knows what. He left you in bed with a sleep- 
 ing draught, didn't he, after he had pulled 
 you about ? Said you were not to get up for 
 a week. You can't lift your right arm without 
 pain. Oh, you are safe from uncharitable 
 hypotheses, even if it were known that you had 
 managed to stagger out of the house. When 
 the doctor comes round this morning, he'll 
 probably say you are worse. Tell him you 
 tried to get up; no more than that. He'll 
 never imagine you capable of that escapade, 
 let alone committing murder." 
 232
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 Gay looked at him doubtfully. 
 
 "Moreover," said Tokenhouse, "Lauder 
 and I were uncivil to each other over that 
 race of ours. I think my remarks would bear 
 the interpretation that I had a crow to pluck 
 with him. I don't want to put any preposter- 
 ous notion into your head; I am simply 
 explaining to you why it is more important 
 for me than for you to keep quiet about last 
 night. When I've got your word on the 
 subject, I'll let Crow bring up your breakfast 
 and allow the Babes to come up if you feel 
 you can stand them. I believe they've been 
 here since cock-crow." 
 
 "Oh, all right," said Gay. "But, Token- 
 house how is she ? " 
 
 All other matters faded before his thought 
 of Judy. 
 
 " I believe Maria has gone to her," said 
 Tokenhouse. He took a turn up and down 
 the room. 
 
 "It looks tidy," he said, reflecting. "No- 
 body would guess who had been your valet. 
 You look as if you had had a bad night; pale 
 and feeble and all that; but, by Jove, you 
 did sleep towards morning. The Crows are 
 bitterly disappointed I wouldn't allow them 
 to rush in and waken you with the horrid 
 
 233
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 news. Hark to the jabbering crew in the 
 kitchen." 
 
 He went to the top of the stair, and im- 
 mediately there was a cessation of noise as 
 Crow stopped discussion to bring up his mas- 
 ter's breakfast. The Babes, taking that signal 
 for permission, mounted on his heels and 
 established themselves more or less comfort- 
 ably around the patient. He looked bad, 
 more haggard than he had yesterday, and they 
 opened their mouths to cheer him with a 
 circumstantial account of all they had heard 
 and collected since the first alarm. The sight 
 of him extinguished a wild and fearful romance 
 they had been nursing, and gave their eager 
 voices an apologetic note. 
 
 "He must have shot himself, you know," 
 said Pinner with conviction. 
 
 "There was a revolver on the floor beside 
 him," said Stokes. 
 
 "His valet found him; and he says but 
 it's all nonsense about that window; it wasn't 
 even broken," said Pinner hastily. "It's only 
 that the shutter wasn't fastened, and the win- 
 dow is one of these long walk-in ones with a 
 knob like a door-handle that can turn on either 
 side; and the catch is loose, a shake and a 
 push lets you in. But how was anybody to 
 234
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 know that the bar wasn't across the shutter ? 
 And who'd go and leave his weapon beside his 
 victim, and then remember to pull the shutter 
 and close the window after him ?" 
 
 "It sounds inconsistent," said Tokenhouse 
 gravely; "unless he wanted to leave some evi- 
 dence behind him." 
 
 Pinner glanced at him uncomfortably, sus- 
 pecting sarcasm. 
 
 "Well," he said, "I suppose it'll all come 
 out at the inquest. I'll tell you one person 
 who's sure it's murder, and that is our man 
 Johnson. He's worked himself into a panic. 
 Says he can't stay in the place; it might be 
 his turn next." 
 
 "There's no pleasing him," said Stokes, but 
 with resignation. "He was always complain- 
 ing that it was dull, and saying the country 
 got on his nerves, and promising to desert us; 
 he said all that kept him alive was reading the 
 murders in the paper. And as soon as we pro- 
 vide a sensation, off he is!" 
 
 The recollection of Johnson's woe broke up 
 their aspect of proper solemnness. 
 
 "I can't help it," said Pinner. " You 
 wouldn't, Gay, not if it was your grandmother 
 who'd been killed, if you'd seen the respect- 
 able Johnson with his hair standing up on end 
 
 235
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 and it so sleek exclaiming he daren't 
 stop. Poor wretch. He used to go down at 
 night to the public-house in the village and 
 sit there till closing time, and then hang about 
 outside till the policeman passed on his round 
 - and then they'd walk on together. He'd 
 no more have ventured to make his way back 
 himself than fly; he was too afraid of hob- 
 goblins. And the policeman used to wait a 
 bit at the turn when they parted, just to give 
 him a feeling of protection while he ran up 
 the fields in the dark. At least, he pretended 
 to." 
 
 "If we weren't asleep when he got in," 
 said Stokes, "we used to hear him puffing 
 and blowing after his run. Not much chance 
 for goblins to lay hold of him. But he says 
 he couldn't bear to remain in this unholy 
 locality. Says he feels he's had a wonderful 
 escape, but he'd be frightened to death of 
 Lauder's ghost, if he stayed on what he calls 
 the Spot." 
 
 "I told him," said Pinner, "that if he bolted 
 it would look as if he'd done it, and you should 
 have seen him jump. He's consulted with 
 his friend the policeman, who roared at the 
 idea more than we did, and said he'd bear wit- 
 ness he saw him home." 
 236
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "We shan't know what to do with ourselves 
 without him," said Stokes. "It'll be a per- 
 petual holiday. No more collars." 
 
 He dismissed the subject cheerfully, their 
 release from the civilising influence being a 
 consoling prospect, and turned his attention to 
 Gay. 
 
 "We're worrying you, aren't we?" he said. 
 "We'll clear out. You wouldn't like us to 
 look after the farm, or anything, would you ? 
 That foreman of yours always sniffs at us, 
 but we'd try to stand up to him." 
 
 "No, thanks," said Gay. "I'll manage. 
 I'll be out soon myself." 
 
 The Babes, struck by his battered look, 
 decided that he was bad. Of course, he was 
 shocked by last night's catastrophe. So were 
 they, but their horror was merging in excite- 
 ment. They took themselves off at last. 
 
 "Ask Crow to come and help me to dress," 
 said Gay. "I don't care what the doctor 
 says. I must get downstairs." 
 
 He was impatient of his own weakness, of 
 the painful coughing that an effort cost. He 
 had done himself no good by his crazy at- 
 tempt last night. This morning his head 
 ached, but it was clear. 
 
 Lauder had shot himself. The words
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 called up a dreadful vision of what might 
 have happened worse, of the danger that must 
 have been incurred by Judy. If the man had 
 been as mad as that, what could he not have 
 done ? 
 
 "You are not lying to me, Tokenhouse ?" 
 he said, in a suddenly shaken voice. "You 
 are sure she's not hurt ? But you have not 
 seen her. Tell me the truth." 
 
 Tokenhouse looked at him gravely. 
 
 "I know she is not hurt," he said. "You 
 can take my word." 
 
 Judy lay with her hand clasped in Maria's 
 and her face crushed into the pillow. At 
 times a shudder ran through her body, and 
 then Maria squeezed her hand tighter and 
 murmured something vague and kind. She 
 felt as if she had lain thus for ever, but she 
 wanted never to lift her head. 
 
 There was a clock ticking on the wall, and 
 far, far down below in the house there were 
 voices, hushed voices, all muffled in their 
 talking, whispering tragedy. She wondered 
 if they were real voices, because nothing could 
 shut them out from her ears. She liked to hear 
 the clock; time was passing, with each minute 
 carrying her a little further from last night. 
 
 238
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 Only, all the minutes were the same. . . . 
 How many must pass before she could feel 
 that they were different; that that was at last 
 a little distant ? She listened, counting . . . 
 and gave it up with a new shudder. Minute 
 by minute the clock might tick on for years, 
 and still she would be lying, listening in 
 vain. . . . 
 
 Maria, with mistaken officiousness, had risen 
 once and gone to the mantelpiece to stop 
 the monotonous clack that went on so loud, 
 but Judy had cried out at the dreadful 
 silence. Not that anything but that. With- 
 out understanding, Maria had let the clock 
 go on. 
 
 It was all very terrible to Maria, but she 
 was full of curiosity. There was so much she 
 was dying to ask; so much more than the 
 maid could tell her. She, on the alarm being 
 given, had rushed up to look for her mistress, 
 and found her lying on her bed. Of course, the 
 woman had thrown herself down beside her, 
 screaming, and Judy had heard the catastrophe 
 from her lips, as soon as consciousness came 
 to her. 
 
 The doctor had said that Mrs. Lauder was 
 suffering from the shock. He had asked 
 Maria to watch over her and see that she was 
 239
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 asked no questions, and Maria had bridled her 
 tongue with pain. 
 
 At last Judy, without lifting her face, without 
 turning, spoke below her breath. 
 
 "Is he dead ?" she said. 
 
 "Oh, Judy, poor Judy," said Maria, "didn't 
 they tell you ?" 
 
 Her eyes were fixed on the fair head crumpled 
 into the pillow, on the soft curve of Judy's 
 neck. The maids had undressed her, put her 
 into a thin muslin nightdress; and her arm 
 lay bare and childish outside the coverlet. 
 Maria had not yet seen her hidden face. 
 
 "Yes," said Judy. "They said they 
 said " 
 
 Her voice faltered into silence, as if what 
 had been told her once could not be repeated, 
 but must be left to the dreadful uncertainty 
 of thought. And then, all at once, she clutched 
 the hand holding hers. 
 
 "He shot himself," she said. "He shot 
 himself." 
 
 "Tell me," said Maria, in a soothing 
 murmur. This was not asking questions. She 
 leaned a little closer. 
 
 "He must have shot himself . . ." said 
 Judy, in the same horrorstruck, but persisting, 
 whisper. 
 
 240
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "Yes yes . . ." said Maria. Doubtless 
 the servant's first cry had been of murder; it 
 must be ringing still in her ears. . . . 
 
 The girl moved, only to crush her face deeper 
 into the pillow. Then at last she turned and 
 let Maria see its desperate whiteness, and the 
 wildness in her tearless eyes. 
 
 " There was nobody there," she said. 
 "Nobody who could but himself. I think 
 he was mad. He tried to frighten me. He 
 was angry. What did I do to make him 
 
 angry ? He struck me, and I remember 
 
 falling. Nobody was there. . . ." 
 
 There was a livid mark on her forehead; 
 it showed plain as she lay gazing up at the 
 other woman, who was kind but could not 
 divine what assurance she was beseeching of 
 her. 
 
 "He must have carried me upstairs," she 
 whispered, " and gone down and shot him- 
 self." 
 
 Always the same piteous insistence, as if 
 it were dragged from her by her own longing 
 to hear it aloud, and so shut her ears to another 
 thought. Maria was not subtle enough to 
 catch that meaning. 
 
 "You don't remember any more?" she 
 asked. 
 
 R 241
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 " No," said Judy. " Only somebody carry- 
 ing me very carefully, very gently and lay- 
 ing me down again; a sort of half-conscious 
 waking, afraid to look, afraid to lose the dream 
 and falling asleep. He never touched me like 
 that before he must have been sorry. It 
 could not there was not - ! There was 
 not any one there but him." 
 
 "No," said Maria, vaguely understanding 
 that she was implored to agree. "It must 
 have been he. Poor Bill!" 
 
 Judy turned that sad, wild face away; her 
 lip quivered. 
 
 "Oh -- " she said. "I I tried to be 
 to him." 
 
 It was all that she had to say of the man 
 who had taken all and given her worse than 
 nothing. 
 
 242
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE inquest was over. 
 It had been carried out with a discreet 
 reticence that culminated in an open verdict. 
 Lauder had been shot, whether by himself or 
 another there was not sufficient evidence to 
 show. The medical testimony was not con- 
 clusive; it admitted that it was possible for 
 Lauder to have fired the shot and the re- 
 volver had been found beside him. 
 
 It was generally believed that the jury had 
 avoided a verdict of suicide out of sympathy 
 with the widow, preferring to leave her the 
 chance of clinging to the thought of an acci- 
 dent. Few seriously doubted that Lauder had 
 met his death at his own hands. But strange 
 things are always said, wild speculations are 
 always rife, at times like these; and although 
 public opinion as a whole took a sensible view 
 of Lauder's tragic end, some were found to 
 differ. 
 
 It was rumoured that the police were making 
 243
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 some mystery about the revolver that had been 
 found, had been working independently while 
 the coroner, rising superior to the ancient 
 rivalry between the amateur and professional 
 investigator, forbore to press points whose 
 premature elucidation might hamper them, 
 meekly subduing that natural vanity that 
 occasionally magnifies the importance of an 
 office. 
 
 And among these who refused to take the 
 commonsense view and dismiss the matter as 
 regrettable, but not surprising, having regard 
 to the antecedents of the man was Sophia 
 Bland. 
 
 She made no outward show of mourning; 
 came out hunting as usual, riding as carelessly 
 as ever on borrowed horses. And she seemed 
 not to notice the curious looks that were cast 
 at her; the way talk dropped away as she rode 
 into it. She did not care if her world chose 
 to hint that she was morally responsible for 
 what had happened, to accuse Lauder's in- 
 fatuation for her as the cause of his downfall. 
 
 When she came upon discussion too suddenly 
 she flung her word at the men who would have 
 hushed each other in her hearing, declaring 
 her unalterable belief that Lauder had not 
 killed himself. 
 
 344
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "I don't like the way she takes it," said 
 Lord Robert uneasily. "I'm not pretending 
 that the rest of us cared for Lauder. But she 
 - she did once, anyhow. Perhaps she feels a 
 bit guilty, and that is why she insists that we're 
 all idiots to stick to the obvious conclusion 
 about a man who was capable of anything, 
 judging by the way he carried on that last 
 afternoon. What does she mean by it though ? 
 There's a vindictive look about her, a sort of 
 'I'm biding my time' suggestion. I hope she 
 doesn't suspect / did it ? What's the matter 
 with Burkinshaw?" 
 
 He screwed himself round to stare at Maria's 
 husband, who was passing him, and whose 
 jolly aspect was uncommonly disturbed. 
 
 "Hi!" he said. "Magistrate! Has any- 
 body applied to you for a warrant?" 
 
 Burkinshaw started visibly; checked his 
 horse; rode on bursting with discomposure - 
 and joined another man with whom he began 
 a solemn confabulation. They drew away a 
 little, shaking their heads. One magistrate 
 may whisper to another things that cannot be 
 divulged. Lord Robert pricked up his ears. 
 
 "There is something afoot," he said; 
 "something blanching your cheek, Burkin- 
 shaw, and lending a furtive squint to your 
 
 245
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 eye. Out with it. You aren't the kind of 
 being to hug mysteries." 
 
 Burkinshaw looked at him pompously, break- 
 ing off his conference to utter a magisterial 
 rebuke. 
 
 "It is not a case for levity," he said. 
 
 "If the police are really working like moles," 
 retorted Lord Robert, unabashed, "I wish 
 they'd throw up a little earth." 
 
 But he fell back on Rafferty. 
 
 "I am not really callous," he said. "I'd 
 feel just as interested if it were my own funeral 
 that made a sensation. Of course, it was a 
 horrid shock hearing about Lauder; but that 
 wears off. I wasn't what you would call 
 astounded. And I can't help being amused 
 at the idea of a mysterious criminal walking 
 into his house to shoot him." 
 
 Rafferty acknowledged the justice of his 
 remark. 
 
 "The very ones that suggest it," he said, 
 "would be the first to drop down dead with 
 amazement if it turned out so." 
 
 Lord Robert suppressed a gleam. 
 
 "If I were the unfeeling monster Burkin- 
 shaw insinuates," he said, "I'd invent a tale 
 that yonder ferrety horse-dealer on the road 
 is a detective mixing with us to run the 
 246
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 murderer to earth. It could be done, Rafferty. 
 I know lots of fellows who'd swallow it all and 
 squirm as I hinted darkly at the direction of 
 his suspicions - 
 
 He sighed, relinquishing endless opportuni- 
 ties for untimely joking. 
 
 "All the same," he said, "there is some- 
 thing peculiar in the air. Burkinshaw won't 
 be able to keep it long to himself; he is an 
 arrant gossip. I'll hang on his skirts awhile." 
 
 But when the revelation came it was in- 
 credible. . . . 
 
 It leaked out at the close of the day when a 
 muddy troop followed, more or less satisfied 
 but reluctant to leave off, in the wake of hounds. 
 The hearts of those in authority had been 
 at last melted by the urgent entreaties of Stokes 
 and Pinner, whose greatest ambition was that 
 hounds should draw the spinney at the back 
 of the Tin House, a distinction that they felt 
 would make them immortal. They had used 
 all the blandishments they could devise to 
 induce a fox to take up his habitation in it. In 
 the summer they had managed to catch a cub 
 and had introduced him to a luxurious earth 
 they had dug and lined with hay. For two 
 or three days they had gone about their busi- 
 ness as mum as mice, afraid to disturb him 
 
 247
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 until he had settled in his new quarters, cau- 
 tiously tip-toeing to the edge of the spinney 
 to leave a nightly offering of a rabbit. He 
 made no sign, but the rabbits went, and they 
 fondly trusted that he was shyly keeping 
 hidden. It seemed unlikely that such a fat, 
 furry little beast could have acquired an ex- 
 ploring spirit. 
 
 Bitter was their disappointment one misty 
 dawn to see a strange collie ranging in search 
 of the tribute they had for once forgotten, 
 and to find that he had been in the habit of 
 calling round for it on his way shepherding. 
 His master, whistling furiously on the other 
 side of the hill, put the matter beyond a doubt. 
 They dived into the charmed circle of wind- 
 sown ashes surrounding the original three 
 Scotch firs, and found it empty. The wicked 
 cub had not spent a single night therein; 
 had pelted back to the distant kingdom 
 whence he had been carried, growling and 
 snapping, hugged to Pinner's breast. 
 
 Kidnapping having turned out a failure, 
 they resorted to milder plans to advertise a 
 vacancy to the foxes; nearly poisoned them- 
 selves by leaving the carcass of a sheep in 
 its vicinity, and bought fifty hens at an auction, 
 religiously omitting to lock them up at night.' 
 248
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 But the miserable fowls cackled with im- 
 punity, actually roosting in the trees, and it 
 was not until Stokes hit on the brilliant idea 
 of stocking some pedigree Brahmas (it was not 
 original, but had struck him on hearing the 
 secretary of the hunt poultry fund enlarging 
 on the wily discrimination of foxes between a 
 prize bird and a barn-door fowl) that luck 
 turned. 
 
 Soon after, Stokes, finding a minute to attend 
 to duty, counting his chickens, without hope, 
 purely from habit, raised a whoop of joy. 
 Three of them had gone. It was indubitably 
 a fox, although he had not bitten off their 
 heads. And a fox having once found out the 
 spinney, all swept and garnished, it seemed to 
 them, full of faith, that he would not be able 
 to resist popping in and out, seeking it as a 
 refuge, even if he did not take up his abode 
 there entirely. They sent in urgent appeals 
 to the Hunt for a visit. 
 
 "Give the Babes a call," said Tokenhouse. 
 "They'd stand on their heads with pride." 
 
 He had strolled out of doors to behold what 
 was going on, hearing the tramp of horses, and 
 leaned over a gate watching hounds drifting by 
 on their way to the last draw of the afternoon. 
 
 249
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 The Master demurred. 
 
 "They have been pitching harrowing tales 
 of depredations among their poultry," he 
 said; "but foxes don't usually dine and sleep. 
 I shouldn't think they'd forsake the Pastures 
 for that draughty hilltop." 
 
 "Still, they might steal up there to keep 
 out of the way," said Tokenhouse. "As 
 to the hens I met a gentleman the other 
 night crawling through a fence with a bundle 
 of feathers under his arm. And I asked him 
 what he was up to - 
 
 "Asked him?" 
 
 "Oh, well," said Tokenhouse, "he was a 
 two-legged fox." 
 
 "The other night?" said Burkinshaw, and 
 bit his tongue. 
 
 "Yes, that night," said Tokenhouse with 
 intention. 
 
 Lord Robert glanced from one to the 
 other. 
 
 "You look deuced uncomfortable, Burkin- 
 shaw," he said; "not to say guilty. You 
 don't mean to confess it was you?" 
 
 Tokenhouse went on, ignoring Burkinshaw's 
 disquiet at his allusion. 
 
 "I dare say you know who it was," he said. 
 " Had some communication with him perhaps ? 
 250
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 I advised him to make a clean breast of it, 
 and it might not turn to his disadvantage." 
 
 Burkinshaw looked more ill at ease than 
 ever. 
 
 "What happened?" said Lord Robert, who 
 had not the key to this. 
 
 "We parted the best of friends," said Token- 
 house. "I was in a hurry and so was 
 he. What he said was, 'Them innocents keeps 
 fowls a purpose to entice the foxes; they're 
 breakin' their 'arts over it, and it's crool to let 
 'em be disappointed, so I've been and fetched 
 a couple." 
 
 "In that case," said the Master, "unless 
 we are going to hunt your friend - 
 
 "Oh, give them a look in," said Tokenhouse. 
 "Just run your hounds through the spinney." 
 
 So it was that the Babes were plunged in the 
 seventh heaven, finding themselves invested. 
 It was a fine sight hounds disappearing into 
 the clump of trees, sniffing in and out and 
 actually a whimper . . . ! 
 
 "We've had a fox in," said Pinner with 
 bated breath. "Perhaps he's in it now." 
 
 "When was it he ate your hens?" said 
 Lord Robert, with his eye on Burkinshaw. 
 The little band of riders, waiting for a last 
 
 251
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 sally into the dusk, massed themselves on the 
 left of the Tin House overlooking the hollow. 
 The shadows were creeping up, casting a gloom 
 on the house below. 
 
 "The night Lauder shot himself,'* said 
 Stokes. 
 
 It was then that Lord Robert's quick 
 apprehension jumped at a preposterous con- 
 clusion. He turned abruptly on Burkinshaw. 
 
 "You don't mean to say . . ." he exclaimed, 
 "that you actually - 
 
 "I'd nothing to do with it," said Burkinshaw 
 hastily. "I've only just been informed. . . . 
 They didn't come to me for the warrant for 
 his arrest." 
 
 "What?" said Lord Robert. His yell col- 
 lected the rest of them round him; he burst 
 into irreverent laughter. 
 
 "Tell 'em!" he said. "Tell 'em, Burkin- 
 shaw. 7 can't. It's not my fault if people 
 turn a serious matter into a joke. I resisted 
 the temptation myself left it to the police. 
 Tokenhouse poor old Tokenhouse, as harm- 
 less as a fly !" 
 
 Annoyed at this ridicule, Burkinshaw could 
 contain himself no longer, but let out all he 
 knew. And after a bit Lord Robert turned his 
 horse and left them at it. Hunting, for that 
 
 252
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 night, was over. Hounds, having riddled the 
 cherished spinney in vain, were called away 
 with due formality, leaving the Babes full of 
 gratification at having been taken seriously at 
 last. It did not matter so very much that the 
 premises, having been drawn in state, had 
 been found tenantless. The great thing was 
 that the spinney had been recognised as no 
 myth but a real fact. 
 
 Tokenhouse had been watching progress from 
 the bottom. 
 
 "They are going on to Cream Gorse, I 
 suppose ?" he said. 
 
 "No, I think they are going home," said 
 Lord Robert distractedly. "/ am, at any 
 rate." 
 
 He walked his horse alongside as they 
 retreated. 
 
 "Burkinshaw has gone clean mad," he 
 said. " He has been electrifying us up there - L - 
 didn't you hear us hooting? with a cock-and- 
 bull story rather more absurd than anything 
 I ever heard about you - 
 
 "Oh, was he?" said Tokenhouse coolly. 
 "I thought he was trying to keep it to himself. 
 There's a fine scarecrow." 
 
 "It's a very well-dressed one," said Lord 
 253
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 Robert, casting a wandering eye in its direc- 
 tion. 
 
 "The Babes put it up to guard their wheat," 
 said Tokenhouse, "and to remind them of 
 their man Johnson. He left in a hurry and 
 forgot to pack the old dress coat he wore to 
 keep up his dignity. They thought it would 
 please the crows." 
 
 They had passed the object of his attention, 
 and he resumed consideration of his com- 
 panion's distracted air. His tone was that of 
 one slightly amused at another man's pre- 
 dicament. 
 
 "I had rather a fancy to come out hunting 
 myself this morning," he said; "not in my 
 gig, you know, but in the old style on horse- 
 back. However, I thought I had better not be 
 out of the way give no unnecessary trouble 
 to the police." 
 
 "Then you know " said Lord Robert. 
 
 "One can't help having an inkling of what 
 is going on," said Tokenhouse. " I hope you'll 
 do all you can to assist the course of justice. 
 For example, I don't wish anybody to minimise 
 that row I had with Lauder at the Point-to- 
 Point. It provides a motive." 
 
 "But you can't possibly want said 
 
 Lord Robert, betraying his stupefaction. 
 254
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 Tokenhouse bent to unlatch the gate at the 
 back of the house, holding it open for the 
 other to pass through; and as he straightened 
 himself he smiled. 
 
 "You think I have queer tastes?" he said. 
 "So I have. I should like to see the thing 
 through properly. Say it's my sporting in- 
 stinct. One doesn't often have an oppor- 
 tunity of learning what it feels like to be the 
 fox. It's about the only thing I have not 
 tried, and I'd like my experiences to be com- 
 plete." 
 
 Lord Robert was consumed with admiration 
 at so eccentric a point of view, one after his 
 own heart, but certainly transcending any- 
 thing he was capable of himself. 
 
 "I won't ask you to come in," said Token- 
 house, stopping at the door. "To tell you the 
 truth, I'm expecting other visitors, and I 
 am afraid I shall have to devote all my atten- 
 tion to them." 
 
 Lord Robert went on his way, meeting two 
 men in a high, black dog-cart, who saluted him 
 gravely as they drove past. He was still in- 
 clined to look upon this development as a 
 huge joke. But that it should have been played 
 upon Tokenhouse, of all people the last 
 
 person in the world ! 
 
 255
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 As Tokenhouse went into the house he had 
 a glimpse of Mrs. Crow peeping at him, with 
 her apron ready to throw over her face. She 
 too, it seemed, had an inkling. And Gay, 
 hearing his step, came out of the library, 
 walking a little stiffly, his face blank with con- 
 sternation. 
 
 "Come in here for God's sake," he said 
 hoarsely. "I've heard a most awful rumour." 
 
 He was not taking it lightly. He almost 
 dragged Tokenhouse into the library and shut 
 the door upon them. On the road there was 
 a noise of wheels. 
 
 "One or two people have been good enough 
 to warn me," said Tokenhouse. "You're not 
 going to propose that I should hide myself 
 in a cupboard ? Don't worry, Gay. I am 
 not at all surprised." 
 
 He sat down comfortably by the fire. 
 
 But Gay went on raging. There was no 
 doubt of him in his face only incredulous 
 anger. 
 
 "Why don't they charge me?" he said. 
 "Why should it be you? What have the 
 fools got against you ? " 
 
 "I believe they have got a witness who saw 
 me out in the fields that night," said Token- 
 house. 
 
 256
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "But I was out too; I'll tell them so. 
 I'll tell them you were looking for me," said 
 Gay. 
 
 "You'll do nothing of the kind," said 
 Tokenhouse. "Look here, Gay, this is my 
 affair, my private shall we say experiment ? 
 The man they have didn't see you. He saw 
 me." 
 
 "But I'll swear I was there!" said Gay. 
 
 Tokenhouse laughed softly at his heat. 
 
 "You couldn't do much," he said, "with- 
 out my corroboration. If you remember, 
 you were hazy on the subject. How do you 
 know you didn't dream it all ? Don't spoil 
 my case. I may be a little odd, but I 
 am not altogether a fool. I won't have in- 
 cautious friends ruining my plans by their 
 rash declarations. I'll let you come forward 
 later on and say whatever you have a mind to. 
 Of course, I shall have a decent lawyer to 
 defend me, and all that sort of thing." 
 
 He paused, looking on with an air of inter- 
 ested detachment at the younger man's agita- 
 tion. 
 
 "I suppose," he said, "that I couldn't con- 
 vince you that this business is an unlooked- 
 for break in the monotony of my existence. 
 I had grown accustomed to thinking my life 
 s 357
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 was practically over, but latterly Well, 
 
 never mind ! My one anxiety is that the 
 Bench may pooh-pooh the charge and refuse 
 to commit me for trial. But I don't think 
 they'll dare to do that. I understand that 
 the police have discovered that the revolver 
 in their possession belongs to me." 
 
 Gay went quickly across the room; hunted 
 in a cupboard among the bookshelves, and 
 turned round speechless. 
 
 "Yes," said Tokenhouse, "it's gone. Don't 
 look so tragic. Careless of me, was it not ? " 
 
 "Who took it?" said Gay, like a man 
 confounded. 
 
 Tokenhouse looked at him, a quiet, long 
 look that for the moment lost its sarcastic 
 humour. He stood up. 
 
 "Thanks," he said. 
 
 And then, in his old manner, glancing at 
 the door: 
 
 "Come in, Superintendent."
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 LORD TOKENHOUSE'S arrest was the 
 one topic at covert-sides; scandal of the 
 common sort paled before it. It was not 
 often that Leicestershire enjoyed a like sensa- 
 tion to startle the waning season. 
 
 For the most part people stoutly took up 
 his cause. He was too well-known, too 
 popular, for them to look upon such an out- 
 landish charge seriously, until the police- 
 court proceedings staggered their faith a 
 little. What Tokenhouse had said to Lauder 
 after the steeplechase in which he had made 
 such a wonderful return to his former self, 
 was brought forward as a proof of ill-feeling 
 between the two. The fact that he had been 
 seen in the fields that lay between the two 
 houses on the fatal night, and the discovery 
 that it was his revolver that had been 
 picked up beside Lauder's body, made it look 
 worse. 
 
 And Tokenhouse would offer no explana- 
 259
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 tion, make no statement; announced simply 
 that he intended to reserve his defence. 
 
 "He was determined to make them send 
 him for trial," said Lord Robert. "You 
 could see that. Just stood there and smiled 
 his provoking sort of sarcastic smile and de- 
 clined to speak. Looked on and let 'em 
 say what they liked, as if it didn't concern 
 him." 
 
 "They say he'd been asking people to do 
 him a service," put in Rafferty; "asking them 
 to brush up their knowledge of anything that 
 might assist the prosecution and give them a 
 stronger case." 
 
 "Not quite that," said Lord Robert, grin- 
 ning. "But it sounds like him. It's his 
 attitude. He means them to go on and clear 
 him; that's what it is." 
 
 "What I can't make out," said RafFerty, 
 "is why on earth a man should go and drop 
 his revolver. If I'd shot anybody, I'd take 
 good care I didn't leave my weapon on the 
 spot." 
 
 "Oh, would you?" said Lord Robert. 
 "I'll bet you'd make the same obliging slips 
 as the rest. I can see you a plausible villain 
 till you'd committed your crime, and then 
 losing your head and chucking down your 
 
 260
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 dagger with a yell, and running off the stage 
 as pale as any ghost." 
 
 "Anyhow," said Rafferty doggedly, "Token- 
 house wouldn't have done a stupid thing like 
 that. It's the one circumstance that makes 
 me sure he didn't do it." 
 
 "Unless," said Lord Robert, "he did it 
 on purpose. I've several queer theories hum- 
 ming in my head, but I'll keep them to my- 
 self. It's a mercy the assizes are in March 
 and we haven't long to wait. . . . There's 
 that poor little lady says Lauder had a pistol 
 of some sort threatened her with it. If he 
 had, what became of it ?" 
 
 "Maria thinks she imagined that," said 
 Rafferty. "The servants swore he had none 
 to their knowledge. And, of course, she 
 fainted." 
 
 "Hum," said Lord Robert drily. "I sup- 
 pose the magistrates agreed with Maria. I'll 
 tell you the one thing that made me feel queer, 
 brought home to me that after all it was a 
 matter of life and death and you know 
 it wasn't easy, with all of us cramming in, 
 chattering as if the whole thing was too ab- 
 surd and old Tokenhouse like a sphinx, 
 nodding to everybody, perfectly unmoved 
 was the sight of her all in black, lifting her 
 
 261
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 great sad eyes, trying to answer. It nearly 
 killed her. Maria says she is frightfully ill. 
 They can't make her go through that again; 
 they'll have to take her evidence on com- 
 mission." 
 
 "I wonder how much she knows," said 
 Rafferty ponderously. Lord Robert cut him 
 short. 
 
 "Don't bring her into it," he said. 
 
 Rafferty stared at him. It seemed to his 
 slower mind that he had run his head against 
 one of these theories that Lord Robert nursed, 
 one perhaps that he would fain have consigned 
 to limbo. 
 
 "There goes Sophia," said Lord Robert 
 in his usual tone. "What's become of the 
 infant ? She hasn't pawned her, has she ? 
 I haven't noticed that imp of mischief crop- 
 ping up in awkward spots for ages. The last 
 time I did, she ran her pony between my 
 horse's legs." 
 
 "She's got measles," said Rafferty, "or 
 mumps or something." 
 
 They both watched Sophia till she was out 
 of sight. Lord Robert was the first to com- 
 ment. 
 
 "I've always heard," he said, "that tigers 
 are lazy beasts; lick their lips in the sun until 
 262
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 the right minute stirs them up. I don't know 
 how it is, Rafferty, but she gives me that idea 
 a kind of lying in wait. They say when 
 she heard that poor old Tokenhouse was taken 
 up, she laughed." 
 
 "Most of us did," said Rafferty. 
 
 "That was because we took it as a tre- 
 mendous joke," said Lord Robert. "But you 
 don't expect a woman and above all that 
 woman - 
 
 Rafferty dropped into meditation. 
 
 Judy was ill. 
 
 She had been carried off by her cousin, 
 packed into the cramped hunting quarters 
 of Burkinshaw, where, at least, there were no 
 painful associations. When the trial was over 
 Maria was going to take her abroad. In the 
 meanwhile she fussed over her kindly, if not 
 always with understanding, mindful of the 
 claims of cousinship. It was falsely told of 
 her that her first remark on hearing of the 
 catastrophe had been: "Poor girl, I must 
 find her another husband!" 
 
 There was an undefined misgiving at the 
 back of Maria's mind that she had not dared 
 to share with her husband, or indeed breathe 
 to anybody. Judy's piteous insistence that 
 
 263
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 Lauder must have shot himself had first 
 shaken her firm impression that he had. 
 Awful possibilities rose up before her. She 
 could not shut her eyes to them, remembering 
 vague anxieties that had led her to confide in 
 Tokenhouse and ask him to keep watch. The 
 arrest of her confidant himself came upon her 
 as an affair too ridiculous to be real. 
 
 She had gone abruptly to Judy with the 
 news. Scorn of it made her careless. 
 
 "Whom do you think they are accusing of 
 shooting poor Bill ?" she had cried. 
 
 And Judy had sprung up and faced her, all 
 one shiver, her face as white as a sheet. 
 
 "Oh- " she said, not asking anything, 
 wavering towards her. 
 
 Maria never forgot the agony in her look, 
 nor how it changed to an almost incredulous 
 relief when she told her who it was, hastily 
 gathering her in her arms, feeling as helpless as 
 a man, unaccustomed to spending tenderness. 
 
 "It's an extraordinary mistake," she said in 
 reassuring tones. 
 
 "Yes," said Judy faintly. Her heart was 
 still beating irregularly upon Maria's awkward 
 bosom. 
 
 That was before she broke down, while 
 264
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 she was still holding on to a strength that was 
 illusory, compounded only of the determina- 
 tion not to fail, not to let herself be shut into 
 the careful silence of a darkened room, hearing 
 nothing but what it would be thought wise to 
 tell her. 
 
 She would sit in a little room at the back 
 of the house with her hands interlaced, 
 listening to the stifled noises reaching her 
 from the one long, narrow village street that 
 was a thoroughfare. Somebody was always 
 passing, looking in to have speech with Burkin- 
 shaw or Maria, who liked this dwelling, for 
 all its inconveniences, a hundred times better 
 than the big house that had now a history, 
 and had been shut away in a hollow. The 
 ordinary life going on outside helped some- 
 how to push away the horror that lay heavy 
 on her; made it possible for her to breathe 
 under the weight of what had been and of 
 what might follow. 
 
 One afternoon, when the village had been 
 more than common quiet, and Judy had heard 
 no sound for a long time but the passing of a 
 little party of second horsemen returning home 
 and the rattle of a cart, there came all at once 
 a stamping of horses under the porch and 
 
 265
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 a man's voice asking for Burkinshaw, who was 
 out. 
 
 She started was not her heart tuned to 
 vibrate to that voice among all others ? and 
 stood up unconsciously as if it called her; held 
 her breath to hear him speak again, leaning 
 against the wall. 
 
 Maria, who had been in a little while, and 
 was changing, put her head out of the window 
 into the street, talking down to him. It was 
 some message about a horse Burkinshaw was 
 buying; he was to wire that night if he wanted 
 him, and Gay had called round to leave an 
 address. 
 
 "Go in and write it down," said Maria. 
 "You'll find telegraph forms somewhere in 
 the hall." 
 
 Judy heard him swing himself down, walk 
 in, while the man with him held his horse. 
 He was looking for the telegraph forms, turn- 
 ing over a litter of papers, dropping a book 
 - his spurs clinked as he bent down to pick 
 it up. So the trivial matters of life went on. 
 It should have been enough to know him so 
 near, to hear him moving, to wait for his voice 
 again. . . . 
 
 She was turning the handle of the door; 
 why she knew not; parting the curtains that 
 
 266
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 hung before it, and standing between them, 
 before she understood what she was doing. 
 And then it was too late to turn back and 
 fall again into the dreadful doubt that would 
 not last longer than till he should look at 
 her. 
 
 She would know then; and the fear of 
 knowledge was all at once worst of all. 
 
 He had his back to her still; he was writing 
 with the stump of a pencil, all he could find 
 on the table, pushed into a corner of the ill-lit 
 hall. She watched his hand travelling on the 
 paper. That was all she could see of him 
 and the back of his head. Perhaps he would 
 go without knowing without knowing that 
 she was there. 
 
 Suddenly he turned. 
 
 Judy had never seen him without a smile in 
 his eyes, but now he was gazing at her as a 
 man might who was haunted by a vision of 
 some one dear to him that had died. Was it 
 her piteousness in this strange black dress that 
 made her look like a spirit ? Or was it a bar- 
 rier in his soul ? 
 
 He did not come to her, but stood trans- 
 fixed by the sight of her. Perhaps he had not 
 known that she was in this house. 
 267
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "You're ill," he said, in a voice that was 
 hushed and startled. "Are they taking care 
 of you, Judy ? Are they - 
 
 Words came to her; not the words she 
 wanted. 
 
 "I've something to ask you," she heard her- 
 self breathing. "Tell me 
 
 "Yes," said Gay. 
 
 Perhaps, after all, he dared not come any 
 nearer, because he could not move without 
 taking her in his arms. 
 
 She had dropped her tone to a whisper and 
 paused, conscious of the horses fidgeting on 
 the pavement, jingling their bits at the door; 
 of Maria treading heavily overhead of her 
 weakness without anybody to lean on. 
 
 "Do you remember," she said, "once, when 
 I was dizzy carrying me into your house ? 
 I want to know - 
 
 Yes, she wanted to know. Anything rather 
 than live with that haunting recollection of 
 being borne in the arms of somebody who 
 cared whose strength was very gentle. If 
 it were but untrue - - ! 
 
 "Did you ever carry me like that . . . 
 again ?" she said. Her eyes looked into his, 
 too desperate for shyness. 
 
 "Never," said Gay. 
 
 268
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "Ah, thank God, thank God!" she said, 
 very low, hardly with her lips. 
 
 She had left him standing, staring, with 
 that grave face. Let him think she was mad. 
 . . . He must not hear her laughing. . , . 
 And nobody but Maria, who could not under- 
 stand, must find her, fallen in a heap too weak, 
 too happy in a strain relaxed to reach the 
 sofa where she wanted to lie for ever sobbing. 
 The door was shut between them. 
 
 "For God's sake take care of her." 
 
 That was his voice, rough with distress, 
 not anger nor horror. She felt as if she were 
 rocking in a ship on a wild sea, but happy 
 oh, very happy. And she could give way at 
 last. 
 
 269
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 P)ULL the rug over your head. Try to 
 
 XT look like a sheep," said Stokes. 
 
 Pinner, on all fours, was doing all man 
 could do with a baby's bottle to beguile a 
 blackfaced lamb, tottering defiance; and 
 Stokes was anxiously pushing it towards him. 
 
 They had been greatly astonished at its 
 arrival, in fact, as Stokes put it: "The sheep 
 didn't expect it either; she died of fright;" 
 but they boldly determined to bring it up by 
 hand. They took it into the Tin House and put 
 it down by the fire, and Pinner had gone down 
 to Gay's house and borrowed a sheepskin rug, 
 while Stokes rode into town and stolidly pur- 
 chased a feeding-bottle. Only the ungrateful 
 little beast did not realise their intentions 
 and butted feebly, wobbling on its unsteady 
 legs, making a shrill and angry cry that seemed 
 to ask deliverance from these monsters. 
 
 It was Pinner who had the good idea that 
 saved them from defeat. He suddenly dipped 
 
 270
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 his finger in the milk and stuck it into the 
 lamb's open mouth. It sucked fiercely. 
 
 "Hooray!" he said. "That's it. The 
 poor little beggar hates the taste of india- 
 rubber. Let him sit down, Stokes; he won't 
 buck into the fender." 
 
 He sat back on his heels indulging the lamb 
 with a milky forefinger. " It's rather a slow way 
 of getting your dinner," he said. "I may as 
 well throw the rug off; I believe he likes me 
 best as I am. Who'd have thought it ?" 
 
 "He doesn't get much," said Stokes, stoop- 
 ing over him with his hands on his knees. 
 
 "Not yet, but I'll educate him up to a 
 spoon. It's a great thing, establishing confi- 
 dence between us," said Pinner. "Don't you 
 be sniffy. I'm the heaven-born farmer. Rule 
 of thumb versus your old scientific methods. 
 He thinks I'm his mother, bless him." 
 
 "Your face is black enough," said Stokes, 
 who had been at the trouble of getting the 
 despised infantine appliance, and brooking 
 some derision as he dashed from shop to shop. 
 
 "I dare say it is," said Pinner. "I meant 
 to wash it, but I couldn't lay hands on a towel. 
 Never mind, it's clean soot. I was seeing to 
 the stove. Isn't it splendid to feel you can 
 do as you like ? No Johnson." 
 
 271
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "We'll have to have a spring-cleaning 
 though," said Stokes. "I can't find any- 
 thing when I want it except the aunt's photo- 
 graph. When I'm sweeping, it always tumbles 
 on my head." 
 
 "I hope she doesn't come down on us in the 
 body," said Pinner fervently, reaching out 
 and tapping the wooden leg of the table to 
 avert the omen. " She'll put an end to this 
 life of unbridled ease. I've not had a collar 
 on in private since Johnson left. Here, 
 mister, you'll choke yourself; don't be greedy. 
 I say, how soon do you think we could wean 
 him ? We might put a ribbon round his neck 
 and send him up to her for a pet. He'd look 
 neat trotting at her skirts in the park." 
 
 Somehow or other, the lamb had imbibed 
 enough sustenance to make it sleepy. It shut its 
 eyes and allowed Pinner to tuck it in a blanket. 
 He rubbed it between its ears, a parting caress; 
 and stood back to gaze at it, gratified. 
 
 "He looks quite at home," he said. "The 
 tide is turning. We'll make our fortunes yet. 
 I'll go down and tell Gay." 
 
 " I'll come with you," said his partner. 
 
 "We can't leave the animal to keep 
 house " 
 
 " Oh, he's too young to get into mischief. 
 272
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 He won't play with matches," said Stokes 
 superiorly, and together they set off. 
 
 They were continually making excuses to 
 look up their neighbour, more from a vague 
 impulse of loyalty than their constant need 
 of advice. They had thrilled to the marrow 
 when he had stood in the witness-box and 
 declared that Tokenhouse had been in search 
 of him that night; when, impetuous and un- 
 guarded, he had poured out his wild state- 
 ment of half-delirious wandering. In cross- 
 examination he had been driven to admit 
 that he had not remembered much until the 
 prisoner confirmed his hazy recollection, and 
 his evidence, without helping his friend as 
 much as he had imagined, had been damaging 
 to himself. It was Tokenhouse who was on 
 his trial, but it had been at Gay that the 
 murmuring listeners looked askance. There 
 were not wanting those who recalled his 
 passage at arms with Lauder, his hot cham- 
 pionship of Lauder's wife. The man at 
 Pinner's elbow had muttered words about 
 people in the same house having access to 
 the same places. It had been proved that 
 Gay's lodger kept his revolvers in the library, 
 where one of them had been found in its case, 
 while the other had been picked up beside 
 T 273
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 the man who had been shot, with three 
 chambers empty. . . . The inference was 
 damning, and Pinner had dug that elbow into 
 him and glared his indignation, miserably 
 conscious that this evil speaker was not the 
 only one. The Babes at least were staunch. 
 
 They marched into his house whistling, 
 affecting a great gaiety. Mrs. Crow, with 
 the distraught air that she held to be respectful 
 to these troublous times, put her head out 
 of the kitchen and, seeing who it was, sighed 
 and set down their plates to warm. The 
 thing she felt most, poor woman, was not 
 Lauder's untimely end, nor the fearful charge 
 that hung over her master's lodger but her 
 own unfortunate heavy slumbers that had 
 prevented her from witnessing anything. She 
 had missed the distinguished opportunity of 
 her life, and disappointment made her tart. 
 She took a gloomy view of the case, as vio- 
 lently as possible opposed to that of her 
 husband, whose veneration of the poor gentle- 
 man had always been vexation in her ears. 
 
 Gay looked up from his solitary fireside at the 
 entrance of his adherents. 
 
 " Have you come to have dinner with me ? " 
 he said. The Babes assented. 
 274
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 They were dying to discuss the thing that 
 was in all their minds, but dared not begin. 
 It lay too dark, too troubled, on Gay's brow. 
 
 Instead, they plunged into agriculture, dis- 
 cussions about soils and cattle and microbes, 
 thte unassimilated fare of their studies, peril- 
 ously mixed. Stokes was the theorist, Pinner 
 the one who lived to upset his theories by 
 putting them, on a limited scale, into practice. 
 The one would lay down the law with the 
 authority of the printed book, and the other 
 bring out its artless refutation, always final 
 "and then we tried it!" 
 
 But at last the time came when silence fell 
 on their voluble, half-triumphant, half-rueful 
 voices, and Gay lifted his glass. 
 
 "We'll drink to Lord Tokenhouse," he said 
 abruptly. 
 
 " He's sure to get off, isn't he ? " said Pinner 
 with bated breath. 
 
 The house was empty for want of its quieter 
 inmate. Stokes glanced up suddenly as if 
 he expected to see him, mildly contemptuous, 
 in the doorway. 
 
 "They'll never find him guilty," he said 
 with conviction. 
 
 "God forbid," said Gay. 
 
 "Why wouldn't he say a word himself?" 
 275
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 said Pinner. "Is it true he said it was too 
 undignified, that he didn't choose to let him- 
 self be bullied by a pack of lawyers?" 
 
 "I think he prefers to look on," said Gay. 
 
 "Yes. He makes you feel as if it was a sort 
 of game," said Pinner admiringly. "As if 
 he wouldn't play because he was too strong 
 for them. A little bored, awfully conde- 
 scending. He's wonderful. What do you 
 think he has got up his sleeve?" 
 
 Gay did not answer. He was bewildered 
 himself, although long association with his 
 lodger had taught him something of his un- 
 usual attitude towards the serious things of 
 life. It was strange to him that any man 
 could maintain his philosophic demeanour 
 in the face of a terrible charge that changed 
 him from a spectator into an actor. Token- 
 house, the humorous observer of other men, 
 whose tolerant comprehension glanced over 
 their foibles, their passions, food for his own 
 unexcited contemplation how was it possible 
 that he of all men should be standing in the 
 dock ? To the other man, hot-blooded, 
 raging in his perplexity, it was inconceiv- 
 able that he should continue to wear a cool 
 front, to look upon this too as a subtle joke. 
 
 Why, as Gay himself had gone into the 
 276
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 witness-box, all eyes turned on him, all the 
 crowd listening he had felt an emotion 
 that was more like fear than anything he had 
 known. It came back to him; a kind of 
 sickness. To get up and fight, to draw a 
 hard breath and strike out for a friend how 
 simple ! But to be shut in, to stand a mark 
 for all men with his hands tied ! 
 
 He felt again that queer sensation of being 
 trapped. He heard his impetuous words 
 fall upon utter silence; and then a thin, 
 deliberate voice cutting in, twisting what he 
 had said till the sense was unlike his own, 
 entangling him in some dimly apprehended net. 
 He felt his throat dry, his heart pumping 
 strangely. What was the sinister suggestion 
 in the truth as he knew it ? What was the 
 inquisitor driving at ? How if he and Token- 
 house had changed places, how if it had been 
 he who, instead of a voluntary witness, had 
 been on trial for his life ? The thought of it 
 gripped him hard. 
 
 No; he could not imitate the prisoner's 
 stoicism. If it had been his lot ! 
 
 "You are looking grim," said Pinner. 
 "Am I?" he said, rousing himself to shake 
 off a little of the trouble in his mind. "You 
 
 277
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 don't know what I had to put up with yester- 
 day" (yes, better try and lift the oppressing 
 cloud by a pretence of lightness). "Lord 
 Robert and I were in here discussing things, 
 when he looked out of window and said : 
 'So that's how Leicester is spending its 
 Sunday afternoons.' And there was a brake 
 full of boot-hands, drawn up in the road, the 
 lot staring up at us, devouring sandwiches 
 as if my house was the Tower of London." 
 
 "Oh, I say, what did you do to them?" 
 said Pinner, in delighted expectation. 
 
 "Lost my temper," said Gay. "Threw 
 up the window and asked them what the 
 devil they wanted here. And the driver, an 
 impudent rascal who looked like a bit of 
 leather, said they were visiting places of in- 
 terest in the neighbourhood, and pointed to 
 the house with his whip. I told him if he 
 didn't move on I'd come out and thrash him." 
 
 "Ah- -!" said Pinner. 
 
 Gay's disgust submitted to the absurdity 
 of the reminiscence. He laughed bitterly. 
 
 "Lord Robert held me down," he said. 
 "Clutched me and showed me a photographer 
 taking aim. The other villain was inciting 
 me to come on, with an eye to the sale of his 
 picture postcards." 
 
 278
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 The Babes giggled convulsively. 
 
 "It's almost a pity " said Stokes, and 
 
 choked. 
 
 "Yes, that's what Lord Robert said. That 
 he deserved a medal for putting friendship 
 first," said Gay. "If I hadn't been in such 
 a towering rage, he'd have suggested pitching 
 them a yarn full of horrors and asking sixpence 
 each for showing them over the house. He's 
 capable of acting showman: 'This is the 
 bed the gentleman slept in. This is the 
 
 notorious back door But to see these 
 
 common brutes with their unwinking stare ! 
 
 Well, it's life. You can stand the big blows; 
 it's the ridiculous little smacks that drive 
 things home to you and make you lose self- 
 control." 
 
 "We'd better go," said Stokes, looking at 
 the clock, and Gay did not try to keep them. 
 Their company was not much more exacting 
 than the friendliness of a dog, and there was 
 distraction in their babble but it didn't 
 make a great difference. He scarcely missed 
 them when they went out. 
 
 Clear of the house they peered with fas- 
 cinated awe into the surrounding darkness. 
 "You and I sleeping like logs!" said 
 279
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 Pinner lamentably, "when all that was going 
 on." 
 
 "And that old hypocrite Ditcher stealing 
 our hens- ' said Stokes. "What did he 
 pretend in court ? That he was hunting for 
 a hedgehog ?" 
 
 "Yes. Swore that a fellow who was break- 
 ing in two young horses had asked him to get 
 him a hedgehog skin to keep 'em from rubbing 
 against the pole. Wasn't a bit abashed when 
 they asked him if it had feathers." 
 
 "What tickles me," said Stokes, "is that 
 born idiot Johnson bolting up the hill as 
 ignorant as a fish. He might just as well have 
 been a bit later or earlier or whatever it was, 
 and looked about him." 
 
 They halted. There was a weird interest 
 in the gloom; it caught their imagination, 
 prickled in their hair as they tracked out the 
 probable scene of Gay's midnight vagary; the 
 little distance he had staggered according to his 
 own unsupported story and marked the stile 
 where the witness had blundered into Token- 
 house, abroad so late. Far in the deeper 
 darkness lay that house shadowed by its history. 
 The Babes moved instinctively closer to each 
 other. 
 
 All at once Pinner burst into an hysterical 
 280
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 fit of laughter, pointing to the black shape 
 presiding, with the same air of reproachful 
 dignity that had distinguished the unlamented 
 Johnson, over their field of wheat. 
 
 "I was thinking," he said, "if he saw him- 
 self planted out there all night, he'd shudder 
 in his skin." 
 
 381
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 IT was Sophia Bland who furnished the 
 surprise of the trial. 
 
 When she was called as a witness the prisoner 
 leaned forward, slightly smiling, but her 
 expression was inscrutable, although she gave 
 him a little nod. 
 
 "And you couldn't have guessed," said 
 Lord Robert with relish, "whether she meant 
 to bless or curse. Of course, Tokenhouse and 
 his counsel must have known all about it, but 
 none of us had the faintest notion. And, 
 though she's lazy, there's an unexpectedness 
 about Sophia. She might have come out 
 with anything under the sun by the look 
 of her." 
 
 What she had to say was brief. Her little 
 girl had carried off the revolver now in the 
 hands of the prosecution one that Token- 
 house had lately been using and had pre- 
 sumably left out within reach of wicked little 
 hands. Lauder had got it from her. She 
 282
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 had asked him to give it back to its owner, 
 and he had said carelessly that there was no 
 hurry. The last she had seen of it had been 
 in his possession. 
 
 Gay, sitting back in court, took a deep 
 breath. 
 
 "What has she been playing for?" sard 
 Lord Robert. "Keeping it to herself all this 
 time, never giving a hint, and all of us racking 
 our brains over the one thing that looked - 
 well, looked you know ! D'you suppose 
 that Tokenhouse asked her to hold her peace, 
 or was it pure devilry ? If she'd gone to the 
 police and told them at the beginning they'd 
 never have had the impertinence to go on. 
 Didn't he miss the thing?" 
 
 "What? No," said Gay. "He mightn't 
 look for it till he wanted it. I don't know 
 whether he knew or not." 
 
 "Well, it was the one thing that stuck in 
 my throat," said Lord Robert. "It looked 
 queer, finding it where it was. Oh, well, 
 if Sophia wanted to be dramatic, she's got her 
 wish. You hear them Applause in court! 
 
 What with your imprudent " he dwelt a 
 
 little on the word "revelations, and this 
 story of Sophia's, the prosecution haven't a 
 leg to stand on. Who says now that Lauder 
 
 283
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 didn't shoot himself? We'll give old Token- 
 house a reception when he comes out!" 
 
 "I'd like to stand up and shout myself 
 hoarse," said Gay. 
 
 "Wait a bit," said Lord Robert. 
 
 But he felt he could understand the other 
 man's agitation. Tokenhouse had taken no 
 man into his counsels, and that incident of the 
 revolver had seemed inexplicable. Without 
 disloyalty a man might be excused extrava- 
 gant thankfulness on hearing its explanation. 
 
 Surely there could be no doubt now in the 
 minds of men that Lauder had frightened 
 his wife with this weapon no figment of a 
 girl's overwrought imagination and after- 
 wards shot himself. Surely and still there 
 might always be a few who would build up 
 an injurious scandal from the ruins of this 
 preposterous charge, who, daunted by the 
 popular scorn, would exonerate Tokenhouse to 
 fix on Gay. They would rake up the damn- 
 ing story of his scene with Lauder down by 
 the brook below Melton Spinney, of his hot- 
 headed threat. And they would put down 
 Tokenhouse's silence to no oddity of his own, 
 but to the desire not to implicate his friend. 
 Perhaps Lord Robert whistled softly as the 
 idea struck him it was some such idea that 
 284
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 had possessed Sophia Bland. Supposing she 
 had fancied the revolver had been returned; 
 supposing she had held back as long as she 
 could to force a man in peril of his life to 
 
 weaken and speak out ? 
 
 He bent forward with his hands on his 
 knees, his glass screwed in his eye, watching 
 her as she tasted her dramatic moment. No, 
 the thought was untenable. She was simply 
 a vain, heartless, and stupid woman. But it 
 was odd that she, with that knowledge in her 
 possession, had all along refused to admit that 
 Lauder had killed himself she who knew 
 his recklessness better than any other. Strange 
 instance of the illogical instinct no, not 
 instinct, the gods forbid ! that was not the 
 word ; the illogical stubbornness of woman. 
 
 Tokenhouse's acquittal was popular. 
 
 His arm was stiff with shaking hands before 
 he was seized upon by Gay and got away from 
 the triumphing of his friends. The jury had 
 not taken long to consider their verdict; 
 there had been no dragging hours of doubt 
 after the judge had summed up and left the 
 case in their hands. 
 
 "We'll get in by dinner-time," said Gay. 
 "I've asked everybody to keep away. You 
 
 285
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 must be dead tired. I'll let them all inundate 
 you to-morrow." 
 
 "I feel rather dissipated," said Token- 
 house. "Rather as if I had been attending 
 a play in China; an entertainment that palls 
 on you day after day. And public sympathy 
 is a trifle wearing. I shall be glad to sink into 
 obscurity." 
 
 He dropped naturally into his old place in 
 the house; accepted Crow's assiduous valeting 
 with the same understanding twinkle that sig- 
 nalised his appreciation of the fearful interest 
 betrayed by Mrs. Crow. 
 
 "It is pleasant to be back," he said, as he 
 settled himself in his comfortable, shabby 
 chair. "Has that good woman held her hand 
 and spared to sweep everything I had touched 
 into a bonfire ? I rather expected to find all 
 traces of my occupation dusted out of the 
 house." 
 
 Gay smiled. It was good to see him sitting 
 there unaltered, fastidiously rolling his ciga- 
 rette. 
 
 "I think Crow promised terrible things 
 if she laid a finger on the library," he said. 
 "In his humble way he wanted you to step 
 into your old place and find it untouched, 
 down to that box of matches." 
 
 286
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "Ah," said Tokenhouse, "imitating his 
 politeness, are you postponing discussion of 
 past events, or is there anything you would 
 like to ask?" 
 
 "No," said Gay, but his face changed; 
 he looked down. "Nothing." 
 
 "Go on," said Tokenhouse quietly. 
 
 "I won't do it," said Gay. "I'll not be 
 less polite than the Crows. You know best 
 why you tried to make me hold my tongue 
 when there was already a witness who had 
 seen you out that night, why you didn't speak 
 out yourself." 
 
 Tokenhouse looked at him thoughtfully. 
 
 "I'm afraid," he said, "you'd hardly under- 
 stand my motives. Put it down to my eccen- 
 tricity. Say to yourself: 'the poor old chap 
 is cracked, he can't behave like ordinary 
 people.' Or conclude that I wanted to clear 
 myself of a ridiculous suspicion without bring- 
 ing anybody else into it. It's a whim of mine 
 to reserve my explanation." 
 
 He looked round the room, musing on its 
 familiar and comfortable disorder. 
 
 "Pity," he said, half to himself. "I had 
 got accustomed to this peaceable existence. 
 I shall be sorry to turn out, Gay." 
 
 "What do you mean ?" said Gay, startled. 
 287
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "An inward impulse to migration," said 
 Tokenhouse. "You'll have to look out for 
 another lodger. I have a curiosity to go up 
 and down the world for a bit. It may be a 
 temporary restlessness. I may drift back to 
 my old haunts like the birds, later on." 
 
 He blew a thin spiral of smoke into the 
 air and watched it fading into nothing, then 
 spoke more gravely. 
 
 "What's the matter?" he said. "What's 
 the trouble with you ?" 
 
 Gay tried no dissimulation. He met the 
 point-blank interrogation with a straight an- 
 swer. Since Tokenhouse could read so much, 
 could see what lay under his real gladness in 
 the other man's triumphant return to his 
 roof, let him know. . . . He looked up, 
 haggard. 
 
 "She thinks I did it," he said. 
 
 "Sbtt'\ 
 
 "Yes," said Gay. 
 
 Tokenhouse did not ask more. There was 
 only one woman who could bring that look to 
 the other's face. 
 
 "That's a mad thought of yours," he said. 
 
 "I saw her," said Gay. "She it was an 
 accident. I had called at Burkinshaw's on 
 some business. And she came she asked 
 
 288
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 me She thought it was I who had carried 
 
 her upstairs that night. And if she thought 
 that, Tokenhouse - 
 
 "Yes, I suppose it follows," said Tokenhouse 
 slowly. "Did she tell you why?" 
 
 "No," said Gay. "I didn't understand 
 at the time. I was so knocked over by the 
 sight of her, so white, so strange - Only 
 afterwards, when I'd lost her face, her words 
 came back to me. What sort of a cur must 
 she think me, Tokenhouse, letting you " 
 
 Tokenhouse was looking at him queerly. 
 
 "Don't take it hard," he said. "She has 
 had a bad time. Forgive her a few strange 
 fancies. Is Maria looking after her?" 
 
 "Yes," said Gay. "They are going to 
 take her away with them for the summer. 
 Tokenhouse, you don't see the horror of it. 
 She told Maria once it could not have been 
 her husband who carried her to her room, 
 that it was somebody who cared for her. It 
 was when she was so ill that she didn't know 
 what she was saying. But who cared for her 
 but I - - ? That she should think me a 
 murderer!" 
 
 "Oh, she said that, did she?" said Token- 
 house. "Poor child, poor unhappy child. 
 She thought it was somebody who cared for 
 u 289
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 her, because her husband had never been 
 gentle to her before; and so she pitched on 
 you ? Don't look so desperate, Gay. The 
 whole world knows your crippled condition, 
 and even taking for granted your attempt at 
 an expedition, it was agony to you to lift 
 your arm. Let her get over the shock and 
 she'll think of that. Don't you see it was 
 because you were the one person she imagined 
 would come to her help that she had that 
 wild idea ? No, I should not despair." 
 
 It seemed to the other man as if Tokenhouse 
 were amused at something, some point that 
 had escaped Gay's attention; and also as if 
 he were hesitating; coming to some decision. 
 But he continued carelessly. 
 
 "It didn't strike you," he said, "that she 
 might perhaps not identify the person who 
 lifted her after she had fainted with the one 
 who fired the fatal shot ? I am only throw- 
 ing out a suggestion. Lauder might have 
 shot himself, or let us say, though it sounds 
 unlikely, been shot, before anybody came. 
 And someone might have found her lying 
 beside him unconscious and tried to spare 
 her the shock of coming to herself where she 
 was. How do you know that was not her idea 
 when she thought of you ?" 
 
 290
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 " Because," said Gay, "when I said she 
 was mistaken she said- 'Thank God!" 
 
 Tokenhouse had treated his broken con- 
 fidence as if it were hardly worth taking in 
 earnest until then. 
 
 "You fool!" he said. "She believed you 
 - and you go brooding over that." 
 
 His voice was sharp with anger and an echo 
 of relief. 
 
 "Try to be reasonable," he said, restored 
 again to his philosophic calm. "Give her a 
 little time to blot out this, but don't let it 
 come between you. Put her first. If you 
 think you can make it up to her better than 
 another man, don't hang back. Why should 
 you ? You haven't stood in the dock charged 
 with shooting a man who deserved no less." 
 
 He looked whimsically across at Gay, put- 
 ting down seriousness as a thing impossible to 
 maintain. 
 
 "I wonder," he said, "if I am the only 
 person who owes a gipsy longing to his so- 
 journ in prison ? The feeling of captivity, 
 the feeling that you can't get out, is one I had 
 never known. I am not sorry. It has done a 
 lot for me, helping me to discover with a sort 
 of moderate rapture what's open to me now, 
 to realise that no corner in the world, however 
 
 291
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 hidden, however distant, is forbidden to my 
 foot. You have to lose your liberty, Gay, 
 before you can taste it properly. The last 
 few weeks have taught me something of the 
 joy of wandering anywhere you choose. I am 
 beginning to map out journeys." 
 
 292
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 A WHITE fog lay thick over the pastures 
 as Gay started out cubbing one morning 
 in late September. 
 
 His horse snuffed the damp mist, plunging 
 into it, lost in it awhile, until a gate rose out 
 of the invisible, and a path tracked itself 
 dimly in the long, wet autumn grass. The 
 country was all asleep. 
 
 Gay passed like a phantom along two or 
 three shrouded fields, and let himself out into 
 a byroad, exchanging his silent canter for a 
 rapid trotting that could not distance the 
 unearthly echoes following him in the fog. 
 Weird and solitary was the lane he travelled, 
 until awakened by a blind clattering of pur- 
 suit as the Babes rushed up on either side, 
 brushing the hedges, having achieved the 
 hard feat of rising before the dawn. 
 
 They hailed him warmly as their sunburnt 
 faces loomed out of the white blanket. 
 
 "Don't look at us," said Pinner. "I know 
 we are ragamuffins; but it's not easy to be 
 
 293
 
 THE .STRAW 
 
 smart when you oversleep yourselves and 
 have to grope all in a minute for your clothes, 
 only too thankful to lay hold of anything that 
 feels like breeches. Joseph, the lamb, walked 
 in yesterday afternoon and ate up the candles 
 cannibal that he is." 
 
 "Why cannibal?" said Gay. 
 
 "Aren't they made of mutton fat?" said 
 Pinner. "What I mind is, we're quite 
 respectable at present, but in two or three 
 hours we'll be a mark of derision in a blazing 
 sun. We'll slink home directly there's an 
 end of playing hide-and-seek." 
 
 "There won't be many out," said Gay, 
 trying not to laugh at the result of their hasty 
 toilets as he consoled them. 
 
 "I don't know," said Stokes. "I heard 
 the Burkinshaws had come down" -he 
 glanced at Gay rather shily " and Lady 
 Sophia Bland. She'll see in a minute that I've 
 tied a handkerchief round my neck because I 
 couldn't lay hands on a tie or a pin in the dark." 
 
 The Burkinshaws ! Gay had not heard 
 that. He thought they were still in Scotland. 
 His heart leapt at the hope of news, and his 
 horse quickened his pace in sympathy with 
 the quicker pulse of his rider. 
 
 "There they are!" said Pinner, putting on 
 294
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 a spurt and flinging back the gate he dashed 
 through. They had risen on higher ground; 
 across a field came the cry of hounds busy in a 
 cover. 
 
 He halted a little way on and laughed. 
 
 "Funny how the noise catches you," he 
 said, "and makes you all anyhow with excite- 
 ment when you know you've got to hang 
 about for hours watching 'em playing games 
 with each other and cracking your whip to 
 keep 'em in instead of holloaing them away. 
 I like that though. It feels unlawful and 
 upside down. Whoosh, you beggar !" 
 
 He made a sally, driving back the smallest 
 cub of the litter stealthily trying to escape 
 the dusting that was going on, before he was 
 let out of school. 
 
 Already the sun was dissipating the fog, 
 sign of a brilliant morning, and the handful 
 of riders loitering at the covert-side ceased 
 humping their chilly backs, and talked of 
 stealing a run before it became too hot for 
 scent. Rabbits were scuttling in all directions 
 among their horses' feet, and now and then 
 a reddish mask peeped out and vanished back 
 into the hurly-burly. 
 
 " Here, you sluggard ! " called Lord Robert, 
 295
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 an unusual spectacle in a short jacket and 
 cowboy hat, far removed from his winter 
 primness. "We have been airing the day 
 for you more than an hour. Is Tokenhouse 
 with you ?" 
 
 Gay rode in beside him, trampling the wet 
 grass that grew tall and wild in a tangle of 
 honeysuckle. 
 
 "He turned up unexpectedly the other 
 night," he said. "On his way somewhere. 
 He said he'd stroll out later and see what we 
 were doing." 
 
 "Sophia Bland will be glad of that," said 
 Lord Robert. "She's spent the whole sum-' 
 mer trying to hit on his whereabouts, I did 
 nothing but knock up against her. No, she's 
 not here yet; she is one of the idle ones who 
 gather after nine o'clock when we busy bees 
 are thinking of going home to breakfast. 
 Lazy tactics. Start with hounds, say I, and 
 stay your stomach with a blackberry." 
 
 He suited the action to the word and made 
 a wry face, for it was unripe. 
 
 "How are you?" he said. "Been down 
 here all the while vegetating ? Have you got 
 any decent horses ? D'you know, Maria 
 came up to me in Bond Street one fine day 
 and asked me if it was true that people in 
 296
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 Leicestershire were looking black upon you. 
 I said / wasn't. Rather a joke that!" 
 
 Gay did not join in his amusement; he 
 looked stonily in front of him. 
 
 "I told her," said Lord Robert easily, 
 "that even in Leicestershire there were a 
 few ill-conditioned louts. That if she liked 
 I'd undertake to spread a report that she'd 
 poisoned her grandmother. I said there 
 would be no difficulty in raising a party of true 
 believers among the yokels. She didn't like 
 it." 
 
 "Don't, like a good fellow- '* said Gay. 
 The jocular allusion to something of which 
 he could not be ignorant jarred on him. 
 
 "There's nothing in it, is there ?" said 
 Lord Robert. His blank dismay was ludicrous 
 and surprised Gay into a half-bitter smile. 
 
 "Well," he said, "you haven't been down 
 here for the last few months." 
 
 "No," said Lord Robert, "the gods be 
 thanked. I bolt out of the country the day 
 after Croxton Park. Can't stand the plague 
 of emptiness, the plague of silence that falls 
 upon the earth. With the spinneys rank 
 with meadow-sweet and the lanes buried in 
 roses smothering them like wreaths at a 
 funeral and not a sound to break the un- 
 
 297
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 hallowed stillness, but the yelling of the 
 cuckoos ! Ah, there's Maria herself look- 
 ing just like a jolly farmer and the last time 
 I saw her she was vapouring in a tail." 
 
 Gay had already recognised the two figures 
 in the clearing distance, coming along the 
 headland in the stubble field on his right. He 
 listened distractedly to his companion's tattle, 
 watching these two taking up their station 
 at the other side of the hedge. What was he 
 afraid of that he did not ride up to them ? 
 He might wait for ever before Lord Robert 
 arrived, in his casual history of things and 
 people, at the one name of interest to him. 
 Had he a reason for leaving her out ? Did he 
 fancy himself discreet ? What was he saying 
 now - - ? 
 
 "The indefatigable Maria's been laying 
 plans. She's a plotter who never cries peceavi. 
 But it's rather too soon after that last fiasco. 
 I suppose she thinks one marriage will drive 
 out the other. But the worst of Americans 
 is you can't trust 'em. They are too eager 
 to see themselves in the public eye. I wouldn't 
 bet against him employing a press agent to 
 make him famous as the man whose wife was 
 the heroine of a fashionable tragedy, etc. etc., 
 
 298
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 and revive the story every time he gives a 
 dinner-party." 
 
 "What are you talking about?" said Gay. 
 But he knew. That rush of blood to . his 
 head told him. It was of her of her. What 
 could a man wish but that she should find 
 happiness ? And would she not find it surest 
 in a future that offered forgetfulness of all 
 that belonged to her past ? 
 
 "Common gossip," said Lord Robert, and 
 flicked at the bushes. "Coloured a bit by 
 private prejudice. The man is presentable. 
 I saw him once or twice." 
 
 "And she- -?" said Gay. 
 
 "I should imagine," said Lord Robert, 
 "that she asked nothing better than to be 
 lifted clean out of it all. I'll do Maria the 
 justice to remark that she sees to that. Noth- 
 ing like making a clear sweep of old associa- 
 tions. I didn't know she was pretty. There's 
 a look in her face when she smiles I don't 
 know what it is, but it's like the sunrise." 
 
 Having riddled the cover from end to end 
 and taught its inhabitants that there was no 
 peace in it, they were letting the cubs away. 
 And then eagerness was indulged in just one 
 gallop, one short frolic up the stubble, over 
 299
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 the tangled, bramble-choked hedge into the 
 wide, low meadow, where it was like riding 
 through a river, so wet the thick eddish was 
 with dew; and on lower to the willows, 
 crossing the summer-dried brook that was 
 nothing but mud and rushes. And then back 
 to work, invading another stronghold. 
 
 Late comers were dribbling on to the scene, 
 coming to swell the band that had been there 
 from the beginning, appearing in single spies. 
 The Babes patted their panting beasts, full of 
 grass, as they pulled up after the run, and sighed. 
 
 "It's about time we went," said Pinner. 
 "We're expecting a telegram from the aunt. 
 Have you heard the latest ? She wants us to 
 marry a market-gardener." 
 
 "A semi-demi-cousin of our own," said 
 Stokes. "'A good, practical girl,' she says. 
 She sent us her photograph out of a ladies' 
 paper. In great boots, with a scowl like a 
 fiend incarnate, digging in the sun." 
 
 "If we were to amalgamate," said Pinner, 
 "she'd make us spend the rest of our lives 
 weeding radishes." 
 
 He leant back in his saddle and pushed the 
 rumpled hair off his forehead, relaxing into a 
 grin. 
 
 "The aunt is too full of plans for our good," 
 300
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 he said. "And this would be worse than 
 Johnson. We couldn't do it. Besides, Stokes 
 he'll deny it, but it's true is madly in love 
 with a languid lady who writes poetry, and 
 she's studying field flowers by way of qualifying 
 for a farmer's wife. So I'm the eligible party, 
 and I'm going to tell her I've been engaged 
 from my cradle. No marriage of inconvenience 
 for us. We're too young and tender. She'll 
 have to let us muddle on by ourselves.'* 
 
 Gay was inattentive. He was still making 
 up his mind to approach Maria, wondering 
 at his own backwardness. Burkinshaw he had 
 greeted already, shouting a word or two at him 
 that had no relation to the question that 
 would have sounded all right if he could have 
 brought it out naturally. Why should he 
 not ? Why not bluntly ask after Judy as 
 any other acquaintance would ? 
 
 They had moved on to a little wood, a cover 
 roofed in with spreading trees, divided by 
 one dark ride running up the middle. A few 
 of them bustled into its depths, or craned 
 their necks over the gate to watch the cubs 
 darting across the ride as hounds chased them 
 from one side of the wood to the other under 
 the waving bracken. The rest scattered, princi- 
 pally on the hither side. 
 
 301
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 Gay turned into the wood, passed down 
 the ride, and let himself out at the further 
 gate where the wood ended in a fringe of 
 nut-bushes sprinkled with ripening hazels 
 and a few ash trees, all whispering leaves 
 waiting till the first frost should bring them 
 shivering down in a night, leaving the branches 
 stripped of their restlessness. There was a 
 floating veil of gossamer on the grass, and the 
 sun was turning the cobwebs that sheeted 
 the hedge into a glistening mist of silver. 
 
 And then, quite suddenly, Gay was deaf to 
 the cracking of whips and all the confusion 
 in the wood behind. Like a man whose eyes 
 were dazzled, he stared and triecl not to cheat 
 himself with vain imagining, tried to keep 
 steady against the mad conviction that would 
 not be gainsaid. She it was, coming with the 
 sun in the magic morning. 
 
 He could not wait to be sure when his 
 heart warned him; could not school himself. 
 There was just the one thing to do, to reach 
 her and fling himself off his horse, and hold 
 her hands fast in his. 
 
 Why, they were laughing, as if they had 
 been children who had lost each other for a 
 while in the dark. . . . 
 
 Still holding her hands, the man looked at 
 302
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 her with a thirsting eagerness that would not 
 be quenched. How slight she was, how 
 girlish what a young thing to carry the 
 tragic knowledge that had darkened the trust- 
 fulness in her eyes. And fear smote him. 
 Perhaps it was not his lot to teach her how to 
 be happy. 
 
 "Are you with the Burkinshaws ?" he 
 said. 
 
 Judy made no attempt to release herself. 
 She smiled up in his face like the spirit of the 
 dawn, who had come wandering over the dim 
 grasses, and might like them have been clad 
 in silver. 
 
 "Yes," she said. "Maria did not want 
 me to come, but I I had nowhere to go 
 alone. She offered to lend me a great, empty 
 house in London. She said - 
 
 But what Maria, in her surprise, had said 
 was not worth repeating. She brushed it 
 aside. 
 
 Gay let go her hands. His half-incredu- 
 lous joy in the miracle was dashed. He came 
 to himself, and the fall from the heights was 
 bitter. 
 
 "Do you know what they are saying of 
 me ?" he asked abruptly. 
 
 Ah, how like her, that quick movement to 
 303
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 him; how like her that unconscious impulse 
 of protection, so dear and so absurd. . . . 
 
 "I know," she said bravely; "that was 
 why I came." 
 
 "But you don't understand," said Gay, 
 fighting against enchantment. 
 
 It was horrible to have to tell her, but it 
 would be unfair to hold his peace. "It's a 
 thing that stands between us - 
 
 Judy laid her hand on his arm, a small, 
 soft hand that fluttered, but could not be 
 shaken ofF. The charm of its touch made him 
 still. 
 
 "If I did not understand," she said, "I 
 might have been too proud. But you want 
 me." 
 
 " Darling darling darling ! " said Gay 
 under his breath; "you'll never know how I 
 want you." 
 
 The colour came into her face; she let 
 her eyes fall from his, but lifted them quickly, 
 too eager in his cause to falter. His horse, 
 standing like a dog by his shoulder, turned 
 his head wistfully, listening to the sounds in 
 the wood. The trees were whispering over- 
 head. 
 
 "And couldn't you guess," she said, "that 
 it was just that would bring me ? the first 
 
 34
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 word that reached me, the first word of 
 slander. I had to let them all see that I 
 believed in you. They can't think such 
 terrible things of you, if 7 his wife " 
 
 She left it unspoken. 
 
 Gay bent and kissed that little defending 
 hand. Was that her thought, an impulse to 
 put herself between him and calumny ? Had 
 she not at all weighed the chances of the 
 scandal smirching her ? Could he suffer her 
 to fling herself into the balance twice ? She 
 had said once that she did not ask to be happy, 
 she only wanted to be kind. . . . Poor, fragile 
 straw, who had tried to save one man from 
 his ruin; was the same impetuous charity 
 blinding her that had wrecked her in that 
 sad failure ? Ah, but it should not. She 
 must not come to him like that. 
 
 "Judy," he said, and the strangeness in 
 his voice startled her. "Look at me, look 
 straight at me. If I said to you you are 
 wrong, you can't help me, can't fight my 
 battle you can only harm me would you 
 give yourself to me all the same?" 
 
 His eyes held hers and her breath came 
 fast as if she were frightened; she had turned 
 pale. A great gladness moved him to unsteady 
 laughter. 
 
 x 35
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "Don't waste your pity on me, my heart," 
 he said. "I am not a coward. I am asking 
 you to be selfish for the first time in your 
 life. Will you?" 
 
 "Yes," she said, shutting her eyes with a 
 sigh on his breast. 
 
 The Babes interrupted, bursting round the 
 purlieus of the wood, pursuing an imaginary 
 brush among the bushes with unregarded 
 turmoil. Hounds and huntsmen were too 
 busy inside to attend to their false alarms. 
 They pulled up, unable to dissemble their 
 boundless astonishment at the sight of Judy, 
 and scrambled off, breaking into exclamation. 
 Was she staying at Somerby, had she been out 
 long ? Why was she on foot, and how on earth 
 had she found them ? Their greetings tumbled 
 over each other, until a brilliant idea occurred 
 to Pinner and kept him for a minute dumb. 
 
 "I say oh, I say- he stammered. 
 
 "Come in to us for breakfast. You must be 
 awfully hungry, tramping in that wet grass. 
 Never mind the cubbing. They'll be dan- 
 gling round here for hours. It's not far; 
 three fields up the lane, three fields after you 
 reach the barn, and there you are. We'll ride 
 on ahead and cook it." 
 36
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 She looked at Gay, smiling, doubtful. 
 
 "Why not? "he said. 
 
 The delighted hosts scampered on, urging 
 their sluggish horses, and disappeared simul- 
 taneously through a gap in the fence beyond. 
 
 Gay slung his reins on his arm and led his 
 horse, walking with Judy until they had left 
 the wood behind them, with its bustle of 
 hounds and riders skirmishing in and out. 
 The sun was up; hedges and grass alike were 
 glittering, all splendid with little stars. 
 
 He swung himself into the saddle and held 
 out his hand to her. 
 
 "Put your foot on mine," he said, "and 
 ride with me." 
 
 Judy was not afraid. She set her foot on 
 his, firm in the stirrup, springing upwards, 
 sitting in front of him in the saddle. 
 
 "You won't let me fall?" she said. 
 
 He laughed, letting his horse go on, and 
 keeping her steady with his arm. 
 
 "Lean back," he said. "You can't fall. 
 
 I'm sure of you like that. I can feel you are 
 
 real, and not that ghost that you used to be. 
 
 Lean against me, Judy. This isn't the world 
 
 - it's heaven ; and it was made for us." 
 
 The hospitable Babes, making haste, flew 
 307
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 swiftly into the Tin House to begin prepara- 
 tions, pulling off their coats to the hot adven- 
 ture of the frying-pan. Stokes, grasping a 
 broom, tackled their curiously-furnished in- 
 terior, and Pinner, casting a wild glance into 
 the larder, seized a basket and sprinted down 
 the hill. 
 
 He was on his way back with a fresh loaf 
 and a ham that he had lifted under the eyes 
 of Mrs. Crow, too hurried to explain why he 
 was thus unceremoniously borrowing as Gay 
 and Judy finished their mad ride, and she 
 slid through his arms to the grass. Running 
 like a deer, Pinner nearly bumped into them 
 at the bottom of the hill, and, realising his 
 half-clad appearance, cut back into the stubble 
 and plucked the decent black coat, rain- 
 stained and greenish, but still respectable, 
 off the scarecrow that had stood all the summer 
 in the wheat. Thus attired, he ran up to 
 them. 
 
 "A shirt's all very well, but a torn 
 shirt- -!" he said. "It's not the thing to 
 receive a lady in. Nothing like presence of 
 mind." 
 
 And he bowed them up the hill like a major- 
 domo. 
 
 308
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 " T WANT to talk to you, Tokenhouse," 
 
 JL said Sophia Bland. She pulled up her 
 horse beside him and stretched out her hand. 
 There was an under-current of eagerness in her 
 voice, as if something was come to her for 
 which she had waited long. 
 
 "And I- he said, "am delighted to 
 
 talk to you, Sophia." 
 
 He looked at her without significance, 
 without surprise, and she laughed. 
 
 "Then we are both content," she said; 
 "but I can't shout at you over a gate-post. 
 Come in this evening." 
 
 "I think not," said Tokenhouse. "No. 
 If you don't mind, Sophia, I won't come to 
 your house. Let us have our day of reckoning 
 in the open." 
 
 "But that is absurd," she said. "You talk 
 as if we were enemies and not old, old friends. 
 You aren't afraid of me ?" 
 
 "No," he said, smiling. "I have no 
 reason to be afraid." 
 
 309
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 Lord Robert popped up on the other side 
 of the fence. Scent was bad, and he had 
 been wading into the nettles, trying to dis- 
 turb a cub that he imagined lying low in the 
 bottom of an open drain, while hounds were 
 leaping backwards and forwards over his head. 
 
 "Run him to earth, have you?" he said. 
 "Clutch him, Sophia; he's slippery. Before 
 you know it he'll be gone, and next time you 
 meet him it'll be in Japan. Whoa, you brute !" 
 
 He switched the reins back over his horse's 
 head and climbed on to him. 
 
 "It's about time we left off," he said. 
 "What do you mean by strolling out to look 
 at us, Tokenhouse, when the fun is over ? 
 We've raked three covers fore and aft, and 
 earned a few crab-apples. I can't think why 
 we're starving, with all these mushrooms 
 about and these branches full of sloes behind 
 you there. Look at the purple bloom on 
 them ! Try one, just one of them, Sophia." 
 
 "Don't," she said; "you set my teeth on 
 edge." 
 
 "You're too sophisticated," said Lord 
 Robert. "You aren't a child of Nature. 
 By the way, there's an extraordinary rumour 
 going round." 
 
 It was a rumour that had spread like wild- 
 310
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 fire, tossed from one man to another in the last 
 half-hour. He read knowledge of it in Sophia's 
 face, and checked himself to marvel at her 
 expression. She had the smile of a dangerous 
 woman pleased. 
 
 Lord Robert was at a loss. He was annoyed 
 at his own stupidity that could not divine 
 what purpose of hers was served by this tale, 
 true or false. 
 
 "It was Burkinshaw himself started it," 
 he said. "I heard him puffing round the 
 corner of the wood to tell Maria. And she 
 took it with resignation, didn't even snap at 
 him to hold his tongue. He hates cubbing; 
 says it's dull, and rolls his eyes around like an 
 animated cod-fish looking out for a bit of 
 gossip. He may have made it up to pass the 
 time. I think I'll ask him." 
 
 "It's probably true," said Sophia with 
 ostentatious carelessness which did not de- 
 ceive Lord Robert. 
 
 "What do you say, Tokenhouse?" he 
 inquired. "You are back in your old quarters; 
 you know everything, of course. Don't be 
 too discreet. Give us your opinion." 
 
 Tokenhouse shifted his position, leaning 
 on the fence. One young hound, pursuing a 
 vain suspicion, pushed past him into the 
 
 3"
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 open, and then, disappointed, turned back 
 again. He stooped to help him over the bars. 
 
 "I am only down here for a day or two," 
 he said. "I've become a vagabond, Gay 
 has not consulted me yet; but on the whole 
 I am disposed to agree with Sophia." 
 
 She looked at him; her voice became soft 
 and wheedling. 
 
 "I shall expect you this evening," she said. 
 "Don't be churlish." 
 
 Tokenhouse did not answer her immediately. 
 He seemed to be considering. Finally, a 
 curious little smile came and settled on his 
 mouth. 
 
 "Very well," he said, "I'll come." 
 
 "I stood by you, didn't I?" said Sophia 
 Bland. 
 
 He had known that he would at last reach 
 that subject, that the trivialities with which 
 they pretended to amuse each other would 
 suddenly give place to this. It was for the 
 woman to make the first move, and he knew 
 if he kept indifferent she would make it. 
 
 "Yes," he said. 
 
 She leaned forward, the laces slipping back 
 from her arms, the light shining in her hair, 
 smiling too. 
 
 3"
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "And you never thanked me," she said 
 plaintively. 
 
 "My dear Sophia," he said, "surely I was 
 not so ungrateful." 
 
 "Not in the way I want to be thanked," 
 she said, "not with your confidence." 
 
 "Isn't that rather a dangerous gift?" said 
 Tokenhouse. "I might bore you, or burden 
 you with too many secrets. Why not let 
 sleeping dogs lie, Sophia?" 
 
 "Did you ever know a woman who could ?" 
 she said, and laughed. "Leave us in the dark 
 and we're villains. Trust us and we are dumb." 
 
 Tokenhouse looked at her keenly. 
 
 "Is that why," he said, "I find some weak 
 idiots looking with knowing ill-favour at Gay, 
 repeating the strange circumstances of what 
 happened here last winter ? I thought by 
 this time it was fairly well established that 
 Lauder had shot himself. What have you 
 been doing it for, Sophia ?" 
 
 She did not defend herself against his 
 penetration. 
 
 "It is only human," she said, with her 
 eyes on him, "that people should ask them- 
 selves why you wouldn't give evidence on 
 your own behalf. Gay said that you had 
 gone out to look for him; you were the only 
 
 313
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 person who knew if what he said were true 
 and you never spoke. You are an odd person, 
 Tokenhouse; if it had been anybody else 
 there could only have been one opinion of 
 your unaccountable behaviour but since it 
 was you, it was put down to all sorts of eccen- 
 tric reasons. And some of us are convinced 
 you were silent to shield a friend." 
 
 "And, therefore," he observed, as if the 
 thing amused him, "you determine to ruin 
 Gay ? You suggest to a pack of credulous 
 fools that if he were fit to get out of bed he 
 was fit to possess himself of my other revolver 
 the one that was found in its case clean and 
 loaded and break into another man's house, 
 and shoot steady - 
 
 He had smoked his cigarette to the stump, 
 threw it into the fender and lit another. 
 
 "I should like to know," he remarked, 
 "whether you pronounce him able to take the 
 precaution of closing the window-shutter, 
 and, after baffling my search, to get home 
 unseen, reload and put away the weapon he 
 had used all that before collapsing. Or do 
 you think I took charge, of that part? Please 
 gratify my curiosity." 
 
 His manner was perfectly unconcerned. 
 
 "Bill never shot himself. He never shot 
 314
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 himself!" cried the woman suddenly. Her 
 breast heaved; she could not play her part 
 after all. 
 
 "You think so?" 
 
 "I should have known," she said, defiant 
 in her past knowledge of the man. "He 
 would have warned me he would have 
 threatened." 
 
 "Poor Sophia!" said Tokenhouse. There 
 was a human note in his voice. "Were you 
 fond of him after all ?" 
 
 For a minute she struggled for breath, but 
 it was a laugh that came; she looked at him 
 very strangely. 
 
 "No," she said. "No, I wasn't. Don't 
 think that of me, Tokenhouse that I could 
 
 be so humble slavish ! But I can't bear 
 
 them all saying he killed himself, and that it 
 was my doing. I can't bear that. Oh, they 
 do. I've heard them. They think I'm a 
 callous fiend who drove him mad to punish 
 him for deserting me; who taunted and 
 flouted him, not from any riotous virtue, but 
 just to punish. I'm worse in their eyes than 
 the lowest woman ! " 
 
 She moved restlessly, turned up the lamp 
 that was burning low; and her arm glowed 
 under the shade of it as red as blood. Then
 
 she sank back on her sofa. She did not mind 
 him seeing her face; what she wanted was to 
 watch his. 
 
 "They all pity her," she said. "They 
 Jiistened to her hysterical version, they were 
 gentle with her the persecuted innocent, 
 the poor, poor crushed little girl who was too 
 rich, the victim of a brutal husband who had 
 made away with himself. And now she is to 
 marry Gay. That's all you've won by your crazy 
 chivalry, Tokenhouse. She is to marry Gay." 
 
 "Do you mean," said Tokenhouse com- 
 posedly, "that you actually think he was 
 guilty ? " 
 
 Her hands were trembling; she clenched 
 them in her lap, laughing at him. 
 
 "Gay?" she cried with scorn. "I'd as 
 soon believe it was you ! Oh, it suited me to 
 fight under any flag. But I know. If Gay 
 had shot him he would have cried it out 
 aloud; he's not the kind to let a friend run 
 his risk. He would have flung the truth at them 
 instead of stammering in the witness-box. 
 It was not Gay you were screening." 
 
 "Who then?" said Tokenhouse, still coolly, 
 but not smiling. 
 
 Her bitterness was like a dammed river that, 
 bursting, submerged all caution. 
 316
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 "She did not care," she cried; "she did not 
 come forward to speak the truth and save 
 you. She would have let you die for her, 
 and kept the world's pity, accepting the 
 sacrifice " 
 
 Tokenhouse got to his feet. His face had 
 become white; it worked with a strange 
 emotion. 
 
 "Sophia," he said, in a voice that was un- 
 like his own, so quick and passionate it was, 
 "you do not dare." 
 
 "Oh," she said, "it's always the little, 
 cowardly, pale-mouthed women who commit 
 the crimes." 
 
 She had launched her thunderbolt. 
 
 It was as still as death in the room, the 
 stuffy luxurious room full of peacocks' feathers. 
 The lamp, turned a little too high, was flaring. 
 The smoke of it stained the ceiling. Sophia's 
 bitter, burning eyes did not fall as she stared 
 at the man who knew. 
 
 "You are mad," he said. 
 
 "Oh, I can't prove it," said Sophia. "No- 
 body can do that but you. And if I stood up 
 and accused her I should be hounded out of 
 society by a sympathising world. That's why 
 I haven't - But some day who knows ? 
 
 my turn will come. I'll always watch for 
 
 317
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 it, Tokenhouse, though I've been a fool to- 
 night. . . . She got the revolver from him 
 and shot him. I can't tell how I know it; 
 perhaps it's instinct. He belonged to me, 
 and she stole him; and somehow I know. 
 She killed him/' 
 
 Tokenhouse controlled himself, recovering 
 his composure and that ironic nonchalance that 
 was a part of him. He did not sit down 
 again, but leaned against the chimneypiece, 
 his clean-cut features, neither young nor old, 
 stamped with a tired indifference, reflected 
 in the mirror; his shoulders a little bent. 
 
 "That will do, Sophia," he said. "You 
 are not an avenging goddess, you're an im- 
 placable, noisy woman. And you can do 
 nothing; you can't hurt her. I'll take care 
 of that." 
 
 "Oh, you're like the rest," she said. "You 
 fall down before her and worship her because 
 she looks so helpless. But I wasn't deceived 
 by your philosophy, Tokenhouse, your affecta- 
 tion of being a looker-on." 
 
 "I see," he said, "you will have to be told 
 the story." 
 
 She caught her breath and stared at him 
 for a minute between triumph and stupe- 
 faction. After she had thwarted her plans 
 318
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 by the violence of a passion she had too long 
 suppressed, after she had betrayed herself 
 was he going to give her victory ? She tried 
 to understand his intention, to read that 
 inscrutable countenance, guessing at his motive. 
 
 "You can't swear me to secrecy," she said. 
 "I am not to be cajoled/' 
 
 "Not," said Tokenhouse, "if it were a 
 condition ? " 
 
 He spoke carelessly, as if stopping to be 
 amused by something so unimportant that it 
 was scarcely worth his smile. 
 
 "We'll come to that later," he said. "So 
 you conceive, Sophia, that I know too much ? 
 And you've been waiting for the propitious 
 moment to make me tell. You didn't put 
 down my queer conduct at the time to an 
 eccentric dislike to letting myself be bullied 
 before the crowd to save my skin ? The 
 misplaced vanity of a poor fellow who is a 
 little touched ?" 
 
 "No," she said with scorn. 
 
 "I am obliged to you for the compliment," 
 said Tokenhouse. "You were right. I held 
 my tongue for my own convenience. I am a 
 bad liar. Even if you do it for others, lying 
 is an undignified occupation. You'll call it a 
 foolish scruple, but I couldn't stoop. And I
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 should have been driven to it in cross-examina- 
 tion, which was unnecessary. I happened to 
 know that you could testify to Lauder's 
 having my revolver in his possession. He 
 told me himself that he had taken it home 
 and chucked it in a drawer. I was tolerably 
 certain that I should be acquitted. In fact, 
 my only anxiety was in case I should not be 
 tried. It was good of you, Sophia, to keep 
 your knowledge to yourself until the dramatic 
 moment." 
 
 "I knew you were doing it for her," said 
 Sophia Bland. "I knew you were screening 
 her. If anything could frighten her into 
 confession it should have been that. Why 
 should I ease her conscience by showing her 
 you were safe ?" 
 
 "Ah," said Tokenhouse, and paused as she 
 hushed her accusing voice, lusting for the 
 revelation that was to come. "Well, you are 
 going to hear the whole story. . . ." 
 
 She listened, avid. 
 
 "Gay heard Lauder galloping home," he 
 said, "and got it into his head that his wife 
 was in danger from him. He was in a fever, 
 too headstrong to listen to argument; he 
 made me promise to go and see. I did. I 
 went out and came across an old vagabond 
 
 320
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 who worked for Gay and was creeping through 
 his fields on a poaching errand. He couldn't 
 swear I was going to Lauder's house; for all 
 he knew I might have been playing game- 
 keeper, or taking a stroll for my pleasure in 
 the dark. He only saw me out, as he said. 
 I went on. Mind, Sophia, I wasn't taking the 
 thing seriously; I was only satisfying a sick 
 man and indulging a whim of my own. 
 I went on, crossed the gravel, and stood on 
 the grass, frozen as hard as iron, outside a 
 window that hadn't been shuttered close. 
 I heard music." 
 
 "Go on," said Sophia Bland, leaning for- 
 ward, her eyes dilated, her lips apart. 
 
 "I didn't go in then," said Tokenhouse 
 significantly, "but I had an idea that Gay 
 was right and she might want protection. 
 I didn't like the look of what I saw through 
 that crack. I thought I had time to go back 
 and fetch something something that would 
 put me on equal terms with a drunken bully. 
 It did not take long. But I found that Gay 
 had managed to start out himself. Perhaps 
 he thought I had no real intention of doing 
 what I promised to pacify him; perhaps he 
 forgot; he was half delirious. Anyhow, he 
 had disappeared while I was gone. I thought 
 y 321
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 I must have missed him. I made the more 
 haste back, knowing where he would try to go." 
 
 He broke off, understanding the woman's 
 gasp. 
 
 "He never got there/' he said quietly; "I've 
 a witness to that. When I came back from 
 Lauder's house afterwards, I found the man 
 from the Tin House, Johnson, supporting 
 him. He had stumbled over him at the stile. 
 Gay had struggled as far as that first stile, 
 and then he had given out. I'd gone by the 
 gate. Between us we got him in quietly and 
 put him to bed. He'd fainted from pain in 
 spite of his doggedness, and we made no 
 noise. I didn't let him know there had been 
 two of us helping him in the morning. As for 
 Johnson, I got rid of him, muzzled him, made it 
 worth his while to go abroad for a year " 
 
 "Why?" asked Sophia swiftly. 
 
 Tokenhouse smiled, as if permitting him- 
 self a digression that had nothing to do with 
 the point of his story. 
 
 "Have you ever noticed how sound carries 
 on a still winter's night?" he said. "Out 
 of doors, that is. The servants in that house, 
 shut off by thick baize doors, cut off by inter- 
 minable passages, heard nothing; but John- 
 son, out in the fields, tumbling over Gay at the 
 
 322
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 stile, heard a pistol crack. You'll admit, 
 Sophia, that it was awkward for me that I 
 should land upon him from that direction. 
 I am a prudent man, not so quixotic as you 
 suppose. I didn't think at the time I was 
 injuring Gay by taking a temporary precaution. 
 And I'm not afraid of the man blackmailing 
 me. I'll get a signed statement from him 
 myself for anybody who wants it now." 
 
 "Then you were there ..." she said. 
 "You saw- -?" 
 
 "Yes," said Tokenhouse. "I went back 
 and found her at the mercy of a half-drunken 
 husband, who had taken that revolver of mine 
 out of the drawer into which he had thrown 
 it, and used it to frighten her. Can't you 
 pity her now, Sophia, jeered at, insulted, in 
 terror of her life ? Not a woman like you, 
 remember, but a girl just a girl " 
 
 "She murdered him," said Sophia, in a 
 harsh whisper. Her fierce interest was crossed 
 by a lightning flash of contempt. The 
 patronising world had known him better than 
 she. There must be a mental weakness in the 
 man whose obstinate silence had now un- 
 accountably broken down. 
 
 "She was braving him alone and defence- 
 less," said Tokenhouse. "As I came to the 
 
 323
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 window I heard him curse her. I told you 
 the shutter was not secure; the bar had 
 slipped and the sides had fallen apart. Lauder 
 had careless servants. Standing close I could 
 see into the room. He struck her, Sophia, 
 kicked her falling body like the vilest brute 
 on the earth - The window-catch gave 
 way at a push * " 
 
 He stopped himself. Into his voice that 
 had vibrated to unaccustomed emotion came 
 a sardonic calm. 
 
 "It doesn't matter in the least what I say 
 to you," he observed. "I am in a position to 
 shout it out on the house-tops. There was 
 more method in my madness, Sophia, than 
 anybody supposed. Since I've been solemnly 
 tried and acquitted according to law, no man 
 can touch me. There's nothing perilous in 
 repeating what I know as openly as I choose 
 no occasion to let rumour poison the character 
 of a friend. It gives one an odd sense of 
 power, Sophia - 
 
 "Why?" she said, holding her breath. 
 
 "Because," said Tokenhouse, "I did it." 
 
 3 2 4
 
 MISS ZONA GALE'S Charming Novels 
 
 Friendship Village 
 
 Those who shook their heads over that delightfully impossible romance 
 "The Loves of Pelleas and Etarre " as being too good to be true, will 
 find that in Miss Gale's new volume the life of a small American village 
 is reproduced with a fidelity that is almost photographic. Yet it loses 
 no element of the charm of atmosphere which this author suggests with 
 a rare perfection. 
 
 The Loves of Pelleas and Etarre 
 
 " To all who know the hidden sources of human joy and have neither 
 grown old in cynicism nor gray in utilitarianism, Miss Gale's charming 
 love stories, full of fresh feeling and grace of style, will be a draught 
 from the fountain of youth." Outlook. 
 
 "Tender and dreamlike as is the atmosphere that pervades this story, a 
 divine and radiant possibility along the line of utmost truth underlies it 
 and opens heaven to a weary multitude. . . . The contented spirit, the 
 assurance of all good, the poetic response to all beauty, declare them- 
 selves in all the lines and incidents of the story, as the atmosphere of 
 heaven let down to earth that love can thrive in though a century of 
 time has passed over its objects." St. Louis Globe- Democrat. 
 
 " The delicate and delightful chronicles of Pelleas and Etarre ... are 
 very human, very appealing, and very well written ... a remarkable 
 blend of the ideal, the real, and the romantic. A vivid humanity 
 animates her characters and makes them creatures of flesh and blood; 
 sheer spontaneity of humor and pathos brings the joy of laughter and the 
 tenderness of tears to the reader's eyes as some quaint conceit or 
 touching sentiment comes to the fore. The style is fascinating, so 
 vivid, so clear, so colorful. The characterization is graced by dehnite- 
 ness and subtlety of live acute psychology, and wonderful penetration 
 into life as it is lived. ... ' The Loves of Pelleas and Etarre ' is not 
 only the best thing that Miss Gale has done . . . but is distinctly and 
 notably one of the choicest literary achievements of recent years." 
 Evening Telegraph, Philadelphia. 
 
 Cloth, i2mo ) $1.50 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS, 64-66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YOKE
 
 THE STRAW 
 
 window I heard him curse her. I told you 
 the shutter was not secure; the bar had 
 slipped and the sides had fallen apart. Lauder 
 had careless servants. Standing close I could 
 see into the room. He struck her, Sophia, 
 kicked her falling body like the vilest brute 
 on the earth - The window-catch gave 
 way at a push * " 
 
 He stopped himself. Into his voice that 
 had vibrated to unaccustomed emotion came 
 a sardonic calm. 
 
 "It doesn't matter in the least what I say 
 to you," he observed. "I am in a position to 
 shout it out on the house-tops. There was 
 more method in my madness, Sophia, than 
 anybody supposed. Since I've been solemnly 
 tried and acquitted according to law, no man 
 can touch me. There's nothing perilous in 
 repeating what I know as openly as I choose 
 no occasion to let rumour poison the character 
 of a friend. It gives one an odd sense of 
 power, Sophia - 
 
 "Why?" she said, holding her breath. 
 
 "Because," said Tokenhouse, "I did it." 
 
 3 2 4
 
 MISS ZONA GALE'S Charming Novels 
 
 Friendship Village 
 
 Those who shook their heads over that delightfully impossible romance 
 " The Loves of Pelleas and Etarre " as being too good to be true, will 
 find that in Miss Gale's new volume the life of a small American village 
 is reproduced with a fidelity that is almost photographic. Yet it loses 
 no element of the charm of atmosphere which this author suggests with 
 a rare perfection. 
 
 The Loves of Pelleas and Etane 
 
 " To all who know the hidden sources of human joy and have neither 
 grown old in cynicism nor gray in utilitarianism, Miss Gale's charming 
 love stories, full of fresh feeling and grace of style, will be a draught 
 from the fountain of youth." Outlook. 
 
 " Tender and dreamlike as is the atmosphere that pervades this story, a 
 divine and radiant possibility along the line of utmost truth underlies it 
 and opens heaven to a weary multitude. . . . The contented spirit, the 
 assurance of all good, the poetic response to all beauty, declare them- 
 selves in all the lines and incidents of the story, as the atmosphere of 
 heaven let down to earth that love can thrive in though a century of 
 time has passed over its objects." St. Louis Globe- Democrat. 
 
 " The delicate and delightful chronicles of Pelleas and Etarre . . . are 
 very human, very appealing, and very well written ... a remarkable 
 blend of the ideal, the real, and the romantic. A vivid humanity 
 animates her characters and makes them creacures of flesh and blood; 
 sheer spontaneity of humor and pathos brings the joy of laughter and the 
 tenderness of tears to the reader's eyes as some quaint conceit or 
 touching sentiment comes to the fore. The style is fascinating, so 
 vivid, so clear, so colorful. The characterization is graced by definite- 
 ness and subtlety of live acute psychology, and wonderful penetration 
 into life as it is lived. ... ' The Loves of Pelleas and Etarre ' is not 
 only the best thing that Miss Gale has done . . . but is distinctly and 
 notably one of the choicest literary achievements of recent years." 
 Evening Telegraph, Philadelphia. 
 
 Cloth, I2mo t $1.50 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHEBS, 64-66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
 
 Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL'S NOVELS 
 
 Each, cloth, gilt tops and titles, $1.50 
 
 Mr. Crewe's Career Illustrated 
 
 " Another chapter in his broad, epical delineation of the American spirit 
 ... It is an honest and fair story. ... It is very interesting; and the 
 heroine is a type of woman as fresh, original, and captivating as any thai 
 has appeared in American novels for a long time past." The Outlook 
 New York. 
 
 " Shows Mr. Churchill at his best. The flavor of his humor is of thai 
 stimulating kind which asserts itself just the moment, as it were, after it has 
 passed the palate. ... As for Victoria, she has that quality of vivid fresh- 
 ness, tenderness, and independence which makes so many modern 
 American heroines delightful." The Times, London. 
 
 The Celebrity. An Episode 
 
 " No such piece of inimitable comedy in a literary way has appeared for 
 years. ... It is the purest, keenest fun." Chicago Inter-Ocean. 
 
 Richard Carvel Illustrated 
 
 ". . . In breadth of canvas, massing of dramatic effect, depth of feeling, and 
 rare wholesomeness of spirit, it has seldom, if ever, been surpassed by an 
 American romance." Chicago Tribune. 
 
 The Crossing Illustrated 
 
 41 ' The Crossing ' is a thoroughly interesting book, packed with exciting 
 adventure and sentimental incident, yet faithful to historical fact both in 
 detail and in spirit." The Dial. 
 
 The Crisis Illustrated 
 
 " It is a charming love story, and never loses its interest. . . . The intense 
 political bitterness, the intense patriotism of both parties, are shown under- 
 standingly." Evening Telegraph, Philadelphia. 
 
 Collision Illustrated 
 
 " ' Coniston ' has a lighter, gayer spirit and a deeper, tenderer touch than 
 Mr. Churchill lias ever achieved before. ... It is one of the truest and 
 finest transcripts of modern American life thus far achieved in our fic- 
 tion." Chicago Record-Herald. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHEBS, 64-66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YOEZ
 
 Mr. ROBERT HERRICK'S NOVELS 
 
 Cloth, extra, gilt tops, each, $1.50 
 
 The Gospel of Freedom 
 
 " A novel that may truly be called the greatest study of social life, in a 
 broad and very much up-to-date sense, that has ever been contributed to 
 American fiction." Chicago Inter-Ocean. 
 
 The Web of Life 
 
 " It is strong in that it faithfully depicts many phases of American life, and 
 uses them to strengthen a web of fiction, which is most artistically wrought 
 out." Buffalo Express. 
 
 The Real World 
 
 " The title of the book has a subtle intention. It indicates, and is true to 
 the verities in doing so, the strange dreamlike quality of life to the man 
 who has not yet fought his own battles, or come into conscious possession 
 of his will only such battles bite into the consciousness." Chicago 
 Tribune. 
 
 The Common Lot 
 
 " It grips the reader tremendously. ... It is the drama of a human soul 
 the reader watches . . . the finest study of human motive that has appeared 
 for many a day." The World To-day. 
 
 The Memoirs of an American Citizen* Illustrated 
 
 with about fifty drawings by F. B. Masters. 
 
 41 Mr. Herrick's book is a book among many, and he comes nearer to 
 reflecting a certain kind of recognizable, contemporaneous American spirit 
 than anybody has yet done." New York Times. 
 
 " Intensely absorbing as a story, it is also a crisp, vigorous document of 
 startling significance. More than any other writer to-day he is giving us 
 tke American novel." New York Globe. 
 
 Together 
 
 "Journeys end in lovers meeting," says the old saw; so all novels used 
 to end in marriage. Yet Mr. Herrick's interesting new novel only 
 begins there; the best brief description of it is, indeed, a novel about 
 married people for all who are married. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS, 64-66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
 
 NOVELS, ETC., BY "BARBARA" 
 
 (MABEL OSGOOD WRIGHT) 
 
 Each, in decorated cloth binding, 
 
 The Garden of a Commuter's Wife Illustrated 
 
 " Reading it is like having the entry into a home of the class that is the 
 proudest product of our land, a home where love of books and love of 
 nature go hand in hand with hearty, simple love of ' folks.' ... It is a 
 charming book." The Interior. 
 
 People of the Whirlpool Illustrated 
 
 " The whole book is delicious, with its wise and kindly humor, its just per- 
 spective of the true values of things, its clever pen pictures of people and 
 customs, and its healthy optimism for the great world in general." 
 Philadelphia Evening Telegraph. 
 
 The Woman Errant 
 
 " The book is worth reading. It will cause discussion. It is an interest- 
 ing fictional presentation of an important modern question, treated with 
 fascinating feminine adroitness." Miss JEANNETTE GILDER in The Chi- 
 cago Tribune. 
 
 At the Sign of the Fox 
 
 " Her little pictures of country life are fragrant with a genuine love of 
 nature, and there is fun as genuine in her notes on rural character. A 
 travelling pieman is one of her most lovable personages ; another is Tatters, 
 a dog, who is humanly winsome and wise, and will not soon be forgotten 
 by the reader of this very entertaining book." New York Tribune. 
 
 The Garden, You and I 
 
 "This volume is simply the best she has yet put forth, and quite too deli- 
 ciously torturing to the reviewer, whose only garden is in Spain. . . . The 
 delightful humor which pervaded the earlier books, and without which 
 Barbara would not be Barbara, has lost nothing of its poignancy, and 
 would make ' The Garden, You and I ' pleasant reading even to the man 
 who doesn't know a pink from a phlox or a Daphne cneorum from a 
 Cherokee rose." Congregationalist. 
 
 The Open Window. Tales of the Months. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHEKS, 64-66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YOBK
 
 By AGNES AND EGERTON CASTLE 
 
 Each in decorated cloth cover, $ 1. 
 
 Wroth 
 
 The first novel, as distinguished from more or less connected episodes, 
 by these authors since their charming " If Youth But Knew " appeared 
 some three years ago. 
 
 The Pride of Jennico 
 
 It is a story of brisk adventure and eager love amid unaccustomed scenes; 
 and it is told with such freshness and sincerity and breezy vigor of word 
 and sentiment as to captivate all readers, whether critical or careless. 
 " This lively story has a half-historic flavor which adds to its interest . . . 
 told with an intensity of style which almost takes away the breath of the 
 reader." Boston Transcript. 
 
 Young April 
 
 It is a delightful story of a runaway month, when the young Duke, care- 
 fully reared in every punctilio of his position, escapes into an atmosphere 
 of freedom, youth, and an April love, that knows nothing of lords. At 
 the end it is a very grave young Duke who comes into his title, because 
 " noblesse oblige," and yet one who sometimes wears with all his quiet 
 dignity a gently reminiscent smile. 
 
 If Youth But Knew 
 
 " One of the most spirited, moving, colorful, and fairly enchanting novels 
 written in many a day a book that moves one to be optimistic of the 
 quality of modern fiction." Republic (St. Louis). 
 
 "My Merry Rockhurst" 
 
 " In the eight stories of a courtier of King Charles Second, which are here 
 gathered together, the Castles are at their best, reviving all the fragrant 
 charm of those books, like 'The Pride of Jennico,' in which they first 
 showed an instinct, amounting to genius, for sunny romances. 
 " It is not the romance of mere intrigue and sword-play that the authors 
 make their leading motive. . . . The book is absorbing, and it is, into 
 the bargain, as spontaneous in feeling as it is artistic in execution." 
 New York Tribune. 
 
 Flower o f the Orange and 
 Other Tales of By-gone Days 
 
 THE MACMTLLAN COMPANY 
 
 PTTBLISHEBS, 64-66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YOEX
 
 Mr. JAMES LANE ALLEN'S NOVELS 
 
 Each, cloth, i2mo, $1.50 
 The Choir Invisible 
 
 This can also be had in a special edition illustrated by Orson 
 Lowell, $2.50 
 
 " One reads the story for the story's sake, and then re-reads the book out 
 of pure delight in its beauty. The story is American to the very core. . . . 
 Mr. Allen stands to-day in the front rank of American novelists. The 
 Choir Invisible will solidify a reputation already established and bring into 
 clear light his rare gifts as an artist. For this latest story is as genuine a 
 work of art as has come from an American hand." HAMILTON MABIE 
 in The Outlook. 
 
 The ReigTl of Law. A Tale of the Kentucky Hempfields 
 
 " Mr. Allen has a style as original and almost as perfectly finished as Haw- 
 thorne's, and he has also Hawthorne's fondness for spiritual suggestion that 
 makes all his stories rich in the qualities that are lacking in so many novels 
 of the period. ... If read in the right way, it cannot fail to add to one's 
 spiritual possessions." San Francisco Chronicle. 
 
 Summer in Arcady. A Tale of Nature 
 
 " This story by James Lane Allen is one of the gems of the season. It is 
 artistic in its setting, realistic and true to nature and life in its descriptions, 
 dramatic, pathetic, tragic, in its incidents ; indeed, a veritable masterpiece 
 that must become classic. It is difficult to give an outline of the story ; 
 it is one of the stories which do not outline; it must be read." Boston 
 Daily Advertiser. 
 
 The Mettle of the Pasture 
 
 " It may be that The Mettle of the Pasture will live and become a part of 
 our literature ; it certainly will live far beyond the allotted term of present- 
 day fiction. Our principal concern is that it is a notable novel, that it ranks 
 high in the range of American and English fiction, and that it is worth the 
 reading, the re-reading, and the continuous appreciation of those who care 
 for modern literature at its best." By E. F. E. in the Boston Transcript, 
 
 Shorter Stories. Each, $1.50 
 The Blue Grass Region of Kentucky 
 Flute and Violin, and Other Kentucky Tales 
 
 Each, illustrated, $1.00 
 A Kentucky Cardinal 
 
 Aftermath. A Sequel to " A Kentucky Cardinal " 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS, 64-66 PIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
 
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 OLDF POOK SHOPPE 
 HO V 3D ST. 
 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 000828450 7