' 
 
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 1401 BELFAST DRIYE 
 LOS ANGELA.
 
 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED
 
 Books by HUGH WALPOLE 
 
 Novels 
 
 THE WOODEN HORSE 
 
 THE GODS AND MB. PERRIN 
 
 THE GBEEN MIRROR 
 
 THE DARK FOREST 
 
 THE SECRET 'CITY 
 
 THE CAPTIVES 
 
 Romances 
 
 MARADICK AT FORTY 
 
 THE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE 
 
 FORTITUDE 
 
 THE DUCHESS OF WBEXE 
 
 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 Short Stories 
 
 THE THIRTEEN TRAVELLERS 
 
 Books About Children 
 
 THE GOLDEN SCARECROW 
 
 JEREMY 
 
 JEREMY AND HAMLET 
 
 (In Preparation) 
 
 Belles-Lettres 
 
 JOSEPH CONRAD: A CRITICAL 
 STUDY
 
 THE YOUNG 
 ENCHANTED 
 
 A ROMANTIC STORY 
 
 BY 
 HUGH WALPOLE 
 
 Author of "The Captives," "Jeremy," "The 
 Secret City," "The Green Mirror," etc. 
 
 NEW HJPJT YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
 
 PK 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1921. 
 BY GEORGE IL DORAN COMPANY 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
 
 TO MY FRIEND 
 LAURITZ MELCHIOR 
 
 AND, THROUGH HIM, 
 TO ALL MY FRIENDS 
 
 IN DENMARK 
 THIS BOOK 
 IS DEDICATED
 
 MOTTO 
 
 "This minute that comes 
 to me over the past 
 Decillions. 
 
 There is no better than it 
 And now. What behaves well 
 In the past or behaves well 
 To-day is not such a wonder. 
 The wonder is always and 
 Always how there can be 
 A mean man or an infidel." 
 
 WALT WHITMAN.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK I: TWO DAYS 
 
 CHAPTER PAOI 
 
 I THE SCARLET FEATHER 13 
 
 II HENRY HIMSELF ........... 28 
 
 III MILLIE 49 
 
 IV HENRY'S FIRST DAY 64 
 
 V THE THREE FRIENDS ..... !M >.. 74 
 
 BOOK II: HIGH SUMMER 
 
 I SECOND PHASE OP THE ADVENTURE . : ., . . 83 
 
 II MILLIE AND PETER ,..;.. 97 
 
 III THE LETTERS . . . . 113 
 
 IV THE CAULDRON ..,.,.:.. 129 
 
 V MILLIE IN LOVE ..... r. . ,., : . . 138 
 
 VI HENRY AT DUNCOMBE . . . : 156 
 
 VII AND PETER IN LONDON 163 
 
 BOOK III : FIRST BRUSH WITH THE 
 ENEMY 
 
 I ROMANCE AND CLADGATE ....... 175 
 
 II LIFE, DEATH AND FRIENDSHIP . ,., -.., .-. . . 195 
 
 III HENRY IN LOVE M M * 212 
 
 IV DEATH OF MRS. TRENCHARD . . . ,., .-., m 220 
 
 ix
 
 x CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER rAM 
 
 V NOTHING is PERFECT . . -. ,., ,., .. . . 229 
 
 VI THE RETURN r <r " * 236 
 
 VII DUNOOMBE SAYS GOOD-BYE :.,.:.... 247 
 
 VIII HERE COURAGE is NEEDED . . .. . . . ,. : 259 
 
 IX QUICK GROWTH 268 
 
 BOOK IV: KNIGHT ERRANT 
 
 I MRS. TENSSEN'S MIND is MADE UP AT LAST . . 281 
 
 II HENRY MEETS MRS. WESTCOTT .... . 286 
 
 III A DEATH AND A BATTLE 292 
 
 IV MILLIE RECOVERS HER BREATH 302 
 
 V AND FINDS SOMEONE WORSE OFF THAN HERSELF 309 
 
 VI CLARE GOES 317 
 
 VII THE RESCUE . . 320 
 
 VIII THE MOMENT 324 
 
 IX THE UNKNOWN WARRIOR . . . ,. . . . 328 
 
 X THE BEGINNING .... 333
 
 BOOK I 
 TWO DAYS
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE SCARLET FEATHER 
 
 YOUNG Henry Trenchard, one fine afternoon in the Spring 
 of 1920, had an amazing adventure. 
 
 He was standing at the edge of Piccadilly Circus, just in 
 front of Swan and Edgar's where the omnibuses stopped. They 
 now stop there no longer but take a last frenzied leap around 
 the corner into Eegent Street, greatly to the disappointment 
 of many people who still linger at the old spot and have a 
 vague sense all the rest of the day of having been cheated by 
 the omnibus companies. 
 
 Henry generally paused there before crossing the Circus partly 
 because he was short-sighted and partly because he never 
 became tired of the spectacle of life and excitement that Picca- 
 dilly Circus offered to him. His pince-nez that never properly 
 fitted his nose, always covered one eye more than the other 
 and gave the interested spectator a dramatic sense of suspense 
 because they seemed to be eternally at the crisis of falling to 
 the ground, there to be smashed into a hundred pieces these 
 pince-nez coloured his whole life. Had he worn spectacles 
 large, round, moon-shaped ones as he should have done he 
 would have seen life steadily and seen it whole, but a kind of 
 rather pathetic vanity although he was not really vain pre- 
 vented him from buying spectacles. The ill-balancing of these 
 pince-nez is at the back of all these adventures of his that this 
 book is going to record. 
 
 He waited, between the rushing of the omnibuses, for the 
 right moment in which to cross, and while he waited a curious 
 fancy occurred to him. This fancy had often occurred to him 
 before, but he had never confessed it to any one not even to 
 
 13
 
 14 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 Millicent not because he was especially ashamed of it but 
 because he was afraid that his audience would laugh at him, 
 and if there was one thing at this time that Henry disliked it 
 was to be laughed at. 
 
 He fancied, as he stood there, that his body swelled, and 
 swelled ; he grew, like 'Alice in her Wonderland/ into a gigantic 
 creature, his neck shot up, his arms and his legs extended, his 
 head was as high as the barber's window opposite, then slowly 
 he raised his arm like Gulliver, the crowds, the traffic, the 
 buildings dwindled beneath him. Everything stopped; even 
 the sun stayed in its course and halted. The flower-women 
 around the central statue sat with their hands folded, the 
 policemen at the crossings waited, looking up to him as though 
 for orders the world stood still. With a great gesture, with 
 all the sense of a mighty dramatic moment he bade the centre 
 of the Circus open. The Statue vanished and in the place where 
 it had been the stones rolled back, colour flamed into the sky, 
 strange beautiful music was heard and into the midst of that 
 breathless pause there came forth what? 
 
 Alas, Henry did not know. It was here that the vision always 
 stayed. At the instant when the ground opened his size, his 
 command, his force collapsed. He fell, with a bang to the 
 ground, generally to find that some one was hitting him in the 
 ribs, or stepping on his toes or cursing him for being in the way. 
 
 Experience had, by this time, taught him that this always 
 would be so, but he never surrendered hope. One day the 
 vision would fulfil itself and then well he did not exactly 
 know what would happen then. 
 
 To-day everything occurred as usual, and just as he came 
 to ground some one struck him violently in the back with an 
 umbrella. The jerk flung his glasses from his nose and he 
 was only just in time to put out his hands and catch them. 
 As he did this some books that he was carrying under his arm 
 fell to the ground. He bent to pick them up and then was at 
 once involved in the strangest medley of books and ankles and 
 trouser-legs and the fringes of skirts. People pushed him and 
 abused him. It was the busiest hour of the day and he was 
 groping at the busiest part of the pavement. He had not had 
 time to replace his pince-nez on hia nose they were reposing
 
 THE SCAELET FEATHER 15 
 
 in his waistcoat pocket and he was groping therefore in a 
 darkened and confusing world. A large boot stamped on his 
 fingers and he cried out; some one knocked off his hat, some 
 one else prodded him in the tenderest part of his back. 
 
 He was jerked on to his knees. 
 
 When he finally recovered himself and was once more stand- 
 ing, a man again amongst men, his pince-nez on his nose, he 
 had his books under his arm, but his hat was gone, gone hope- 
 lessly, nowhere to be seen. It was not a very new hat a dirty 
 grey and shapeless but Henry, being in the first weeks of his 
 new independence, was poor and a hat was a hat. He was 
 supremely conscious of how foolish a man may look without a 
 hat, and he hated to look foolish. He was also aware, out of 
 the corner of his eye, that there was a smudge on one side of 
 his nose. He could not tell whether it were a big or a little 
 smudge, but from the corner of his eye it seemed gigantic. 
 
 Two of the books that he was carrying were books given him 
 for review by the only paper in London a small and insignifi- 
 cant paper that showed interest in his literary judgment, and 
 but a moment ago they had been splendid in their glittering 
 and handsome freshness. 
 
 Now they were battered and dirty and the corner of one of 
 them was shapeless. One of the sources of his income was the 
 sum that he received from a bookseller for his review copies; 
 he would never now receive a penny for either of these books. 
 
 There were tears in his eyes how he hated the way that 
 tears would come when he did not want them ! and he was muddy 
 and hatless and lonely! The loneliness was the worst, he was 
 in a hostile and jeering and violent world and there was no 
 one who loved him. 
 
 They did not only not love him, they were also jeering at him 
 and this drove him at once to the determination to escape their 
 company at all costs. No rushing omnibuses could stop him 
 now, and he was about to plunge into the Piccadilly sea, hat- 
 less, muddy, bruised as he was, when the wonderful adventure 
 occurred. 
 
 All his life after he would remember that moment, the soft 
 blue sky shredded with pale flakes of rosy colour above him, 
 the tall buildings grey and pearl white, the massed colour of
 
 16 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 the flowers round the statue, violets and daffodils and prim- 
 roses, the whir of the traffic like an undertone of some sym- 
 phony played by an unearthly orchestra far below the ground, 
 the moving of the people about him as though they were all 
 hurrying to find their places in some pageant that was just 
 about to begin, the bells of St. James' Church striking five 
 o'clock and the soft echo of Big Ben from the far distance, the 
 warmth of the Spring sun and the fresh chill of the approach- 
 ing evening, all these common, everyday things were, in retro- 
 spect, part of that wonderful moment as though they had been 
 arranged for him by some kindly benignant power who wanted 
 to give the best possible setting to the beginning of the great 
 romance of his life. 
 
 He stood on the edge of the pavement, he made a step for- 
 ward and at that moment there arose, as it were from the very 
 heart of the ground itself, a stout and, to Henry's delicate 
 sense, a repulsive figure. 
 
 She was a woman wearing a round black hat and a black 
 sealskin jacket; her dress was of a light vivid green, her hair 
 a peroxide yellow and from her ears hung large glittering dia- 
 mond earrings. 
 
 To a lead of the same bright green as her dress there was 
 attached a small sniffing and supercilious Pomeranian. She 
 was stout and red-faced: there was a general impression that 
 she was very tightly bound about beneath the sealskin jacket. 
 Her green skirt was shorter than her figure requested. Her 
 thick legs showed fairly pink beneath very thin silk black 
 stockings; light brown boots very tightly laced compressed her 
 ankles until they bulged protestingly. All this, however, Henry 
 did not notice until later in the day when, as will soon be 
 shown, he had ample opportunity for undisturbed observation. 
 
 His gaze was not upon the stout woman but upon the child 
 who attended her. Child you could not perhaps truthfully call 
 her; she was at any rate not dressed as a child. 
 
 In contrast with the woman her clothes were quiet and well 
 made, a dark dress with a little black hat whose only colour 
 was a feather of flaming red. It was this feather that first 
 caught Henry's eye. It was one of his misfortunes at this time 
 that life was always suggesting to him literary illusions.
 
 THE SCAKLET FEATHER 1? 
 
 When he saw the feather he at once thought of Kazkolnikov's 
 Sonia. Perhaps not only the feather suggested the comparison. 
 There was something simple and innocent and a little appre- 
 hensive that came at once from the girl's attitude, her hesita- 
 tion as she stood just in front of Henry, the glance that she 
 flung upon the Piccadilly cauldron before she stepped into it. 
 
 He saw very little of her face, although in retrospect, it was 
 impossible for him to believe that he had not seen her exactly 
 as she was, soul and body, from the first instant glimpse of her; 
 her face was pale, thin, her eyes large and dark, and even in 
 that first moment very beautiful. 
 
 He had not, of course, any time to see these things. He 
 filled in the picture afterwards. What exactly occurred was 
 that the diamond earrings flashed before him, the thick legs 
 stepped into the space between two omnibuses, there was a 
 shout from a driver and for a horrible moment it seemed that 
 both the girl and the supercilious Pomeranian had been run 
 over. Henry dashed forward, himself only narrowly avoided 
 instant death, then, reaching, breathless and confused, an island, 
 saw the trio, all safe and well, moving towards the stoutest of 
 the flower-women. He also saw the stout woman take the girl 
 by the arm, shake her violently, say something to her in obvious 
 anger. He also saw the girl turn for an instant her head, look 
 back as though beseeching some one to help her and then follow 
 her green diamond-flashing dragon. 
 
 Was it this mute appeal that moved Henry? Was it Fate 
 and Destiny? Was it a longing that justice should be done? 
 Was it the Eomantic Spirit? Was it Youth? Was it the Spirit 
 of the Age? Every reader of this book must make an indi- 
 vidual decision. 
 
 The recorded fact is simply that Henry, hatless, muddy, 
 battered and dishevelled, his books still clutched beneath his 
 arm, followed. Following was no easy matter. It was, as I 
 have already said, the most crowded moment of the day. Be- 
 yond the statue and the flower-woman a stout policeman kept 
 back the Shaftesbury Avenue traffic. Men and women rushed 
 across while there was yet time and the woman, the dog and 
 the girl rushed also. As Henry had often before noticed, it
 
 18 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 was the little things in life that so continually checked his prog- 
 ress. Did he search for a house that he was visiting for the 
 first time, the numbers in that street invariably ceased just 
 before the number that he required. Was anything floating 
 through the air in the guise of a black smut or a flake of 
 tangible dust, certainly it would settle upon Henry's uncon- 
 scious nose: was there anything with which a human body 
 might at any moment be entangled, Henry's was the body 
 inevitably caught. 
 
 So it was now. At the moment that he was in the middle 
 of the crossing, the stout policeman, most scornfully disre- 
 garding him, waved on the expectant traffic. Down it came 
 upon him, cars and taxi-cabs, omnibuses and boys upon bicycles, 
 all shouting and blowing horns and screaming out of whistles. 
 He had the barest moment to skip back into the safe company 
 of the flower-woman. Skip back he did. It seemed to his 
 over-sensitive nature that the policeman sardonically smiled. 
 
 When he recovered from his indignant agitation there was 
 of course no sign of the flaming feather. At the next oppor- 
 tunity he crossed and standing by the paper-stall and the 
 Pavilion advertisements gazed all around him. Up the street 
 and down the street. Down the street and up the street. No 
 sign at all. He walked quickly towards the Trocadero restau- 
 rant, crossed there to the Lyric Theatre, moved on to the 
 churchyard by the entrance to Wardour Street and then gazed 
 again. 
 
 What happened next was so remarkable and so obviously 
 designed by a kindly paternal providence that for the rest of 
 his life he could not quite escape from a conviction that fate 
 was busied with him! a happy conviction that cheered him 
 greatly in lonely hours. Out from the upper Circle entrance 
 to the Apollo Theatre, so close to him that only a narrow 
 unoccupied street separated him, came the desired three, the 
 woman and the dog first, the girl following. They stood for a 
 moment, then the woman once more said something angrily 
 to the girl and they turned into Wardour Street. Now was 
 all the world hushed and still, the graves in the churchyard 
 slept, a woman leaning against a doorway sucked an orange,
 
 THE SCARLET FEATHEK 19 
 
 the sun slipped down behind the crooked chimneys, saffron 
 and gold stole into the pale shadows of the sky and the morning 
 and the evening were the First Day. 
 Henry followed. 
 
 Around Wardour Street they hung all the shabby and tat- 
 tered traditions of the poor degraded costume romance, but 
 in its actual physical furniture there are not even trappings. 
 There is nothing but Cinema offices, public houses, barber 
 shops, clothes shops and shops with windows so dirty that 
 you cannot tell what their trade may be. It is a romantic street 
 in no sense of the word; it is not a kindly street nor a hos- 
 pitable, angry words are forever echoing from wall to wall and 
 women scream behind shuttered windows. 
 
 Henry had no time to consider whether it were a romantic 
 street or no. The feather waved in front of him and he fol- 
 lowed. He had by now forgotten that he was hatless and 
 dirty. A strangely wistful eagerness urged him as though 
 his heart were saying with every beat: "Don't count too much 
 on this. I know you expect a great deal. Don't be taken in/' 
 
 He did expect a great deal; with every step excitement beat 
 higher. Their sudden reappearance when he had thought that 
 he had lost them seemed to him the most wonderful omen. 
 He believed in omens, always throwing salt over his left shoul- 
 der when he spilt it (which he continually did), never walking 
 under ladders and of course never lighting three cigarettes with 
 one match. 
 
 Some way up Wardour Street on the left as you go towards 
 Oxford Street there is a public house with the happy country 
 sign of the Intrepid Fox. No one knows how long the Intrepid 
 Fox has charmed the inhabitants of Wardour Street into its 
 dark and intricate recesses Tom Jones may have known it 
 and Pamela passed by it and Humphrey Clinker laughed in 
 its doorway no one now dare tell you and no history book 
 records its name. Only Henry will never until he dies forget 
 it and for him it will always be one of the most romantic 
 buildings in the world. 
 
 It stood at the corner of Wardour Street and a little thor- 
 oughfare called Peter Street. Henry reached the Intrepid Fox
 
 20 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 just as the Flaming Feather vanished beyond the rows of flower 
 and vegetable stalls that thronged the roadway. Peter Street 
 it seemed was the market of the district ; beneath the lovely blue 
 of the evening the things on the stall are picturesque and 
 touching, even old clothes, battered hats, boots with gaping toes 
 and down-trodden heels, and the barrow of all sorts with dirty 
 sheets of music and old paper-covered novels and tin trays and 
 cheap flower-painted vases. In between these booths the feather 
 waved. Henry pursuing stumbled over the wooden stands of 
 the barrows, nearly upset an old watery-eyed woman from her 
 chair and arrived just in time to see the three pursued vanish 
 through a high faded green door that had the shabby number 
 in dingy red paint of Number Seven. 
 
 Number Seven was, as he at once perceived, strangely situ- 
 ated. At its right was the grimy thick-set exterior of "The 
 City of London" public house, on its left there was a yard roofed 
 in by a wooden balcony like the balcony of a country inn, old 
 and rather pathetic with some flower-pots ranged along it and 
 three windows behind it; the yard and the balcony seemed to 
 belong to another and simpler world than the grim ugliness 
 of the "City of London" and her companions. The street was 
 full of business and no one had time to consider Henry. ID 
 this neighbourhood the facts that he was without a hat and 
 needed a wash were neither so unusual nor so humorous as to 
 demand comment. 
 
 He stood and looked. This was the time for him to go home. 
 His romantic adventure was now logically at an end. Did he 
 ring the bell of Number Seven he had nothing whatever to say 
 if the door were opened. 
 
 The neighbourhood was not suited to his romantic soul. The 
 shop opposite to him declaring itself in large white letters 
 to be the "Paris Fish Dinner" and announcing that it could 
 provide at any moment "Fish fried in the best dripping" was 
 the sort of shop that destroyed all Henry's illusions. He should, 
 at this point, have gone home. He did not. He crossed the 
 road. The black yard, smelling of dogs and harness, invited 
 him in. He stumbled in the dusk against a bench and some 
 boxes but no human being seemed to be there. As his eyes grew 
 accustomed to the half light he saw at the back of the yard a
 
 THE SCARLET FEATHER 21 
 
 wooden staircase that vanished into blackness. Still moving 
 as though ordered by some commanding Providence he walked 
 across to this and started to climb. It turned a corner and his 
 head struck sharply a wooden surface that suddenly, lifting 
 with his pressure a little, revealed itself as a trap-door. Henry 
 pushed upwards and found himself, as Mrs. Eadcliffe would 
 say "in a gloomy passage down which the wind blew with gusty 
 vehemence/' 
 
 In truth the wind was not blowing nor was anything stirring. 
 The trap-door fell back with a heavy swaying motion and a 
 creaking sigh as though some one quite close at hand had sud- 
 denly fainted. Henry walked down the passage and found 
 that it led to a dusky thick-paned window that overlooked a 
 square just behind the yard through which he had come. This 
 was a very small and dirty square, grimy houses overlooking 
 it and one thin clothes-line cutting the light evening sky now 
 light topaz with one star and a cherry-coloured baby moon. 
 To the right of this window was another heavily curtained and 
 serving no purpose as it looked out only upon the passage. 
 Beside this window Henry paused. It was formed by two long 
 glass partitions and these were not quite fastened. From the 
 room beyond came voices, feminine voices, one raised in violent 
 anger. A pause from below in the yard some one called. A 
 step was ascending the stair. 
 
 From within voices again and then a sound not to be mis- 
 taken. Some one was slapping somebody's face and slapping it 
 with satisfaction. A sharp cry and Henry pushing back the 
 window, stepped forward, became entangled in curtains of some 
 heavy clinging stuff, flung out his arms to save himself and 
 fell for the second time within an hour and on this occasion 
 into the heart of a company that was most certainly not expect- 
 ing him. 
 
 n 
 
 He had fallen on his knees and when he stumbled to his feet 
 his left heel was still entangled with the curtain. He nearly 
 fell again, but saved himself with a kind of staggering, sud-
 
 22 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 denly asserted dignity, a dignity none the easier because he 
 heard the curtain tear behind him as he pulled himself to 
 his feet. 
 
 When he was standing once more and able to look about him 
 the scene that he slowly collected for himself was a simple one 
 a very ugly room dressed entirely it seemed at first sight in 
 bright salmon pink, the walls covered with photographs of 
 ladies and gentlemen for the most part in evening dress. There 
 were two large pink pots with palms, an upright piano swathed 
 in pink silk, a bamboo bookcase, a sofa with pink cushions, a 
 table on which tea was laid, the Pomeranian and three human 
 beings. 
 
 The three human beings were in various attitudes of trans- 
 figured astonishment exactly as though they had been lent for 
 this special occasion by Madame Tussaud. There was the lady 
 with the green dress, the girl with the flaming feather and 
 the third figure was a woman, immensely stout and hung with 
 bracelets, pendants, chains and lockets so that when her bosom 
 heaved (it was doing that now quite frantically) the noise that 
 ehe made resembled those Japanese glass toys that you hang 
 in the window for the wind to make tinkling music with them. 
 The only sounds in the room were this deep breathing and this 
 rattling, twitting, tittering agitation. 
 
 Even the Pomeranian was transfixed. Henry felt it his duty 
 to speak and he would have spoken had he not been staring at 
 the girl as though his eyes would never be able to leave her 
 face again. It was plain enough that it was she who had been 
 slapped a moment ago. There was a red mark on her cheek 
 and there were tears in her eyes. 
 
 To Henry she was simply the most beautiful creature ever 
 made in heaven and sent down to this sinful earth by a loving 
 and kindly God. He had thought of her as a child when he 
 first saw her, he thought of her as a child again now, a child 
 who had, only last night, put up her hair under the hat with 
 the flaming feather, that hair of a vivid shining gold was try- 
 ing to escape into many rebellious directions. The slapping 
 may have had something to do with that. It was obvious at 
 the first glance that she was not English Scandinavian per- 
 haps with the yellow hair, the bright blue eyes and the clear
 
 THE SCARLET FEATHER 23 
 
 pink-and-white skin. Her dress of some mole-coloured corduroy, 
 very simple, her little dark hat, set off her vivid colour 
 exquisitely. She shone in that garish vulgar room with the 
 light and purity of some almost ghostly innocence and sim- 
 plicity. She was looking at Henry and he fancied that in spite 
 of the tears that were still in her eyes a smile hovered at the 1 
 corners of her mouth. 
 
 "Well, sir ?" said the lady in green. She was not really angry 
 Henry at once perceived and afterwards he flattered^ himself 
 because he had from the very first discovered one of the prin- 
 cipal features of that lady's "case" namely, that she would 
 never feel either anger or disapproval at any member of the 
 masculine gender entering any place whatever, in any manner 
 whatever, where she might happen to be. No, it was not anger 
 she showed, nor even curiosity rather a determination to turn 
 this incident, bizarre and sudden though it might be, to the 
 very best and most profitable advantage. 
 
 "You see," said Henry, "I was in the passage outside and 
 thought I heard some one call out. I did really/' 
 
 "Well you were mistaken, that's what you were," said the 
 green lady. "I must say ! Of all the things !" 
 
 "I'm really very sorry," said Henry. "I've never done such 
 a thing before. It must seem very rude." 
 
 "Well it is rude," said the green kdy. "If you were to ask 
 me to be as polite as possible and not to hurt anybody's feelings, 
 I couldn't say anything but that. All the same there's no 
 offence taken as I see there was none meant!" 
 
 She smiled ; the gleam of a distant gold tooth flashed through 
 the air. 
 
 "If there's anything I can do to apologize," said Henry, 
 encouraged by the smile, but hating the smile more than ever. 
 
 "No apologies necessary," said the green lady. "Tenssen's 
 my name. Danish. This is Mrs. Armstrong My daughter 
 Christina " 
 
 As she spoke she smiled at Henry more and more affection- 
 ately. Had it not been for the girl he would have fled long 
 before; as it was, with a horrible sickening sensation that in 
 another moment she would stretch out a fat arm and draw him 
 towards her, he held his ground.
 
 24 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 "What about a cup of tea?" she said. At that word the room 
 seemed to spring to life. Mrs. Armstrong moved heavily to the 
 table and sat down with the contented abandonment of a cow 
 safe at last in its manger. The girl also sat down at the 
 opposite end of the table from her mother. 
 
 "It's very good of you/' said Henry, hesitating. "The fact 
 is that I'm not very clean. I had an accident in Piccadilly and 
 lost my hat." 
 
 "That's nothing," said Mrs. Tenssen, as though falling down 
 in Piccadilly were part of every one's daily programme. 
 
 "Come along now and make yourself at home." 
 
 He drew towards her, fascinated against his will by the shrill 
 green of her dress, the red of her cheeks and the strangely inti- 
 mate and confident stare with which her eyes, slightly green, 
 enveloped him. As he had horribly anticipated her fat bone- 
 less fingers closed upon his arm. 
 
 He sat down. 
 
 There was a large green teapot painted with crimson roses. 
 The tea was very strong and had been obviously standing for 
 a long time. 
 
 Conversation of a very bright kind began between Mrs. 
 Tenssen and Mrs. Armstrong. 
 
 "I'm sure you'll understand," said Mrs. Tenssen, smiling 
 with a rich and expensive glitter, "that Mrs. Armstrong is my 
 oldest friend. My oldest and my best. What I always say is 
 that others may misunderstand me, but Euby Armstrong never. 
 If there's one alive who knows me through and through it's 
 Mrs. Armstrong." 
 
 "Yes," said Henry. 
 
 "You mustn't believe all the kind things she says about me. 
 One's partial to a friend of a lifetime, of course, but what I 
 always say is if one isn't partial to a friend, who is one going 
 to be partial to?" 
 
 Mrs. Armstrong spoke, and Henry almost jumped from his 
 chair so unexpectedly base and masculine was her voice. 
 
 "Ada expresses my feelings exactly," she said. 
 
 "I'm sure that some," went on Mrs. Tenssen, "would say 
 that it's strange, if not familiar, asking a man to take tea with 
 one when one doesn't even know his name, and his entrance
 
 THE SCARLET FEATHER 25 
 
 into one's family was so peculiar ; but what I always say is that 
 life's short and there's no time to waste." 
 
 "My name's Henry Trenchard," said Henry, blushing. 
 
 "I had a friend once" (Mrs. Tenssen always used the word 
 "friend" with a weight and seriousness that gave it a very 
 especial importance), "a Mr. William Trenchard. He came 
 from Beckenham. You remember him, Euby?" 
 
 "I do," said Mrs. Armstrong. "And how good you were to 
 him too! No one will ever know but myself how truly good 
 you were to that man, Ada. Your kind heart led you astray 
 there, as it has done often enough before." 
 
 Mrs. Tenssen nodded her head reminiscently. "He wasn't 
 all he should have been," she said. "But there, one can't go 
 on regretting all the actions of the past, or where would one be ?" 
 
 She regarded Henry appreciatively. "He's a nice boy," she 
 said to Mrs. Armstrong. "I like his face. I'm a terrible 
 woman for first impressions, and deceived though I've been, 
 I still believe in them." 
 
 "He's got kind eyes/' said Mrs. Armstrong, blowing on her 
 tea to cool it. 
 
 "Yes, they 're what Fd call thinking eyes. I should say he's 
 clever." 
 
 "Yes, he looks clever," said Mrs. Armstrong. 
 
 "And I like his smile," said Mrs. Tenssen. 
 
 "Good-natured I should say," replied Mrs. Armstrong. 
 
 This direct and personal comment floating quite naturally 
 over his self-conscious head embarrassed Henry terribly. He 
 had never been discussed before in his own presence as though 
 he didn't really exist. He didn't like it ; it made him extremely 
 uneasy. He longed to interrupt and direct the conversation into 
 a safer channel, but every topic of interest that occurred to him 
 seemed unsuitable. The weather, the theatres, politics, Bolshe- 
 vism, high prices, food, house decoration, literature and the 
 Arts all these occurred to him but were dismissed at once as 
 unlikely to succeed. Moreover, he was passionately occupied 
 with his endeavour to catch the glimpses of the girl at the end 
 of the table. He did not wish to look at her deliberately lest 
 that should embarrass her. He would not, for the world bring 
 her into any kind of trouble. The two women whom he hated
 
 26 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 with increasing vehemence with every moment that passed were 
 watching like vultures waiting for their prey. (This picture 
 and image occurred quite naturally to Henry.) The glimpses 
 that he did catch of the soft cheek, the untidy curls, the bend 
 of the head and the curve of the neck fired his heart to a heroism, 
 a purity of purpose, a Quixotism that was like wine in his head, 
 so that he could scarcely hear or see. He would have liked to 
 have the power to at that very instant jump up, catch her in 
 his arms and vanish through the window. As it was he gulped 
 down his tea and crumbled a little pink cake. 
 
 As the meal proceeded the air of the little room became very 
 hot and stuffy. The two ladies soon fell into a very absorbing 
 conversation about a gentleman named Herbert whose salient 
 features were that he had a double chin and was careless about 
 keeping engagements. The conversation passed on then to 
 other gentlemen, all of whom seemed in one way or another to 
 have their faults and drawbacks, and to all of whom Mrs. 
 Tenssen had been, according to Mrs. Armstrong, quite mar- 
 vellously good and kind. 
 
 The fool that Henry felt ! 
 
 Here was an opportunity that any other man would have 
 seized. He could but stare and gulp and stare again. The girl 
 sat, her plate and cup pushed aside, her hands folded, looking 
 before her as though into some mirror or crystal revealing to 
 her the strangest vision and as she looked unhappiness crept 
 into her eyes, an unhappiness so genuine that she was quite 
 unconscious of it. 
 
 Henry leant across the table to her. 
 
 "I say, don't . . . don't!" he whispered huskily. 
 
 She turned to him, smiling. 
 
 "Don't what?" she asked. There was the merest suggestion 
 of a foreign accent behind her words. 
 
 "Don't be miserable. I'll do anything anything. I fol- 
 lowed you here from Piccadilly. I heard her slapping you/' 
 
 "Oh, I want to get away !" she whispered breathlessly. "Do 
 you think I can?" 
 
 "You can if I help you," Henry answered. "How can I see 
 you?" 
 
 "She keeps me here ..."
 
 THE SCARLET FEATHER 27 
 
 Their whispers had been low, hut the eager conversation at 
 the other end of the table suddenly ceased. 
 
 "I'm afraid I must be going now," said Henry rising and 
 facing Mrs. Tenssen. "It was very good of you to give me 
 tea." 
 
 "Come again/' said Mrs. Tenssen regarding him once more 
 with that curiously fixed stare, a stare like a glass of water in 
 which floated a wink, a threat, a cajoling, and an insult. 
 
 "We'll be glad to see you. Just take us as you find us. Come 
 in the right way next time. There's a bell at the bottom of 
 the stairs." 
 
 Mrs. Armstrong laughed her deep bass laugh. 
 
 He shook hands with the two women, shuddering once more 
 at Mrs. Tenssen's boneless fingers. He turned to the girl. 
 "Good-bye," he said. "I'll come again." 
 
 "Yes," she answered, not looking at him but at her mother 
 at the other side of the table. The stairs were dark and smelt 
 of fish and patchouli. He stumbled down them and let him- 
 self out into Peter Street. The evening was blue with a lovely 
 stir in it as in running water. The booths were crowded, voices 
 filled the air. He escaped into Shaftesbury Avenue as Hansel 
 and Gretel escaped from the witch's cottage. He was in love 
 for the first time in his young, self-centred life. . . .
 
 CHAPTEE II 
 
 HENRY HIMSELF 
 
 IN the fifth chapter of the second part of Henry Galleon's 
 Three Magicians there is this passage (The Three Magicians 
 appeared in 1892) : 
 
 When he looked at the Drydens, father, daughter, and son, he 
 would wonder, as he had often in earlier days wondered, why 
 writers on English character so resolutely persisted in omitting 1 
 the Dryden type from their definitions? These analyses were 
 perhaps too sarcastic, too cynical to include anything as artless, as 
 simple as the Dryden character without giving the whole case 
 away . . . and yet it was, he fancied in that very character that 
 the whole strength and splendour of the English spirit persisted. 
 Watching Cynthia and Tony Dryden he was reminded of a picture 
 in a fairy-tale book read and loved by him in his youth, now for- 
 gotten to the very name of its author, lingering only with a few 
 faded colours of the original illustration. He fancied that it had 
 been a book of Danish fairy romances. . . . This picture of which 
 he thought was a landscape Dawn was breaking over a great 
 champigne of country, country that had hills and woods and for- 
 ests, streams and cottages all laid out in that detailed fancy that, 
 as a child, he had loved so deeply. The sun was rising over the 
 hill; heavy dark clouds were rolling back on to the horizon and 
 everywhere the life of the day, fresh in the sparkling daylight was 
 beginning. The creatures of the night were vanishing; dragons 
 with scaly tails were creeping back reluctantly into their caves, 
 giants were brandishing their iron clubs defiantly for the last 
 time before the rising sun; the Hydras and Gryphons and Five- 
 Headed Tortoises were slinking into the dusky forests, deep into 
 the waters of the green lakes the slimy Three-Pronged Alligators 
 writhed deep down into the filth that was their proper home. 
 
 The flowers were thick on the hills, and in the valleys, the birds 
 sang, butterflies and dragon-flies flashed against the blue, the 
 smoke curled up from the cottage chimneys and over all the world 
 was hung a haze of beauty, of new life and the wonder of the 
 coming day. 
 
 In the foreground of this picture were two figures, a girl and 
 
 28
 
 HEOT3Y HIMSELF 29 
 
 a boy, and the painter, clumsy and amateurish though his art may 
 have been, had with the sincerity and fervour of his own belief 
 put into their eyes all their amazement and wonder at the beauty 
 of this new world. 
 
 They saw it all ; the dragons and the gryphons, the heavy clouds 
 rolling back above the hill were not hidden from them; that they 
 would return they knew. The acceptance of the whole of life was 
 in their eyes. Their joy was in all of it; their youth made them 
 take it all full-handed. . . . 
 
 I have thought of them sometimes I think of the Drydens now 
 as the Young Enchanted. And it seems to me that England 
 is especially the country of such men and women as these. All 
 the other peoples of the world carry in their souls age and sophisti- 
 cation. They are too old for that sense of enchantment, but in 
 England that wonder that is so far from common sense and yet 
 is the highest kind of common sense in the world has always 
 flourished. It is not imagination; the English have less imagina- 
 tion than any other race, it is not joy of life nor animal spirits, 
 but the child's trust in life before it has grown old enough for 
 life to deceive it. I think Adam and Eve before the Eall were 
 English. 
 
 That sense of Enchantment remains with the English long after 
 it dies with the men and women of other nations, perhaps because 
 the English have not the imagination to perceive how subtle, how 
 dangerous, how cynical life can be. Their art comes straight from, 
 their Enchantment. The novels of Fielding and Scott and Thack- 
 eray and Dickens and Meredith, the poetry of Wordsworth and 
 Keats and Shelley, the pictures of Hogarth and Constable and 
 Turner. The music of Purcell, the characters of Nelson and 
 Wellington and Gordon. . . . 
 
 And think what that sense of Enchantment might do for them 
 if only their background would change. For generations gone that 
 has not moved. One day when the earthquake comes and the up- 
 heaval and all the old landmarks are gone and there is a new world 
 of social disorder and tumbling indecency for their startled gaze 
 to rest upon then you will see what these children of Enchantment 
 will do! 
 
 So much for Galleon who is already now so shortly after his 
 death looked upon as an old sentimental fogy. Sentimental? 
 Why certainly. What in the world could be more absurd than 
 his picture of the English gazing wide-eyed at the wonder of 
 life ? They of all peoples ! 
 
 And yet he was no fool. He was a Cosmopolitan. He had 
 lived as much in Borne, in Paris, in Vicenza, as in London.
 
 30 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 And why should I apologize for one of the greatest artists 
 England possesses? Other times, other names . . . and you 
 can't catch either Henry Trenchard or Millicent no, nor Peter 
 either and I venture to say that you cannot catch that strange, 
 restless, broken, romantic, aspiring, adventurous, disappointing, 
 encouraging, enthralling, Life-is-just-beginning-at-last Period 
 in which they had these adventures simply with the salt of sheer 
 Realism not salt enough for that Bird's tail. 
 
 I should like to find that little picture of Henry Galleon's 
 fairy book and place it as a frontispiece to this story. But 
 Heaven alone knows where that old book has gone to ! It was 
 perhaps Galleon's own invention; he was a queer old man and 
 went his own way and had his own fancies, possessions that 
 many writers to-day are chary of keeping because they have 
 been told on so many occasions by so many wise professors that 
 they've got to stick to the Truth. Truth? Who knows what 
 Truth may be? Platitudinous Pilate failed over that question 
 many years ago, and to-day we are certainly as far as ever 
 from an answer. There are a million Truths about Henry and 
 Millicent and the times they lived in. Galleon's is at least one 
 of them, and it's the one Pve chosen because it happens to be 
 the way I see them. But of course there are others. 
 
 "The whole Truth and nothing but the Truth." What absurd- 
 ity for any story-teller in the world to think that he can get 
 that and what arrogance ! This book is the truth about these 
 children as near as I can get to it, and the truth about that 
 strange year 1920 in that strange town, London, as faithfully 
 as I can recollect, but it isn't everybody's Truth. Far from it 
 and a good thing too. 
 
 Henry's rooms were at the top of 24 Panton Street. To get 
 to them you placed a Yale key in the lock of an old brown door, 
 brushed your way through a dim passage, climbed a shabby 
 staircase past the doors of the Hon. Nigel Bruce, Captain D'Arcy 
 Sinclair, Claude Bottome, the singer, and old Sir Henry Bris- 
 tow, who painted his face and wore stays. This was distin- 
 guished company for Henry who was at the beginning of his 
 independent life in London, and the knowledge that he was in 
 the very centre of the Metropolis, that the Comedy Theatre was 
 nearly opposite his door and Piccadilly only a minute away
 
 HENEY HIMSELF 31 
 
 gratified him so much that he did not object to paying three 
 guineas a week for a small bed-sitting room without breakfast. 
 It was a very small room, just under the roof, and Henry who 
 was long and bony spent a good deal of his time in a doubled-up 
 position that was neither aesthetic nor healthy. Three guineas 
 a week is twelve pounds twelve shillings a month, and one 
 hundred and fifty-one pounds four shillings a year. He had 
 a hundred and fifty pounds a year of his own, left to him by 
 his old grandfather, and by eager and even optimistic calcula- 
 tion he reckoned that from his literary labours he would earn 
 at least another hundred pounds in his London twelve months. 
 Even then, however, he would not have risked these handsome 
 lodgings had he not only a month ago, through the kind services 
 of his priggish brother-in-law, Philip Mark, obtained a secretary- 
 ship with Sir Charles Buncombe, Bart., at exactly one hundred 
 and fifty pounds per annum. 
 
 With inky fingers and a beating heart he produced this 
 estimate : 
 
 s. d. 
 
 Income from Grandfather . . . 150 
 Literary Earnings .... 100 
 Sir Eonald D. 150 
 
 Grand Total 400 
 
 And against this he set: 
 
 s. d. 
 
 Eooms . . . . . . . 163 16 
 
 Food 100 
 
 Clothes 50 
 
 Etceteras 50 
 
 363 16 
 Saved in first year in London . . 36 4 
 
 There were certain risks about this estimate. For one thing 
 literature might, conceivably, not contribute her hundred pounds 
 quite so completely as he hoped. On the other hand, she might 
 contribute more. . . . 
 
 Again Henry was on trial with Sir Charles, was going into 
 his service the day after to-morrow for the first time, had never
 
 32 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 been secretary to any one in his life before, and was not by 
 temperament fitted entirely for work that needed those two 
 most Damnable and Soul Destroying of attributes, Accuracy 
 and Method. He had seen Sir Charles only once, and the grim 
 austerity of that gentleman's aristocratic features had not 
 been encouraging. 
 
 Never mind. It was all enchanting. What was life for if 
 one did not take risks? Every one was taking risks, from 
 Mr. Lloyd George down to (or possibly up to) Georges 
 Carpentier and Mr. Dempsey Henry did not wish to be behind 
 the rest. 
 
 Mr. King, his landlord, had suggested to him that he might 
 possibly be willing to lay a new wall-paper and a handsome 
 rug or carpet. There was no doubt at all that the room needed 
 these things; the wall-paper had once been green, was now in 
 many places yellow and gave an exact account of the precise 
 spots where the sporting prints of the last tenant (young Nigel 
 Frost Bellingham) had hung. The carpet, red many years 
 ago, resembled nothing so much as a map of Europe with lakes, 
 rivers, hills, and valleys clearly defined in grey and brown 
 outline. Henry explained to Mr. King that he would wish to 
 wait for a month or two to see how his fortunes progressed 
 before he made further purchases, upon which Mr. King, staring 
 just over Henry's shoulder at the green wall-paper, remarked 
 that it was usual for gentlemen to pay a month's rent in ad- 
 vance, upon which Henry, blushing, suggested that an improve- 
 ment in his fortunes was perfectly certain and that he was 
 private secretary to Sir Charles Duncombe, Bart., of whom 
 Mr. King had doubtless heard. Mr. King, bowing his head as 
 of one who would say that there was no Baronet in the United 
 Kingdom of whom he had not heard, nevertheless regret- 
 ted that the rule concerning the month's rent was constant, 
 unchanging and could, in no circumstances whatever, be 
 altered. 
 
 This Mr. King was little in stature, but great in demeanour. 
 His head was bald save for a few black hairs very carefully 
 arranged upon it, as specimens are laid out in the Natural 
 History Museum. His face also was bald, in the strictest 
 sense of the word; that is, not only did no hairs grow upon it
 
 33 
 
 but it seemed impossible that any hairs ever had grown upon it. 
 His eyes were sharp, his mouth deprecating and his chin in- 
 significant. He wore, it seemed, the same suit of black, the 
 same black tie, the same stiff white shirt from year's end to 
 year's end. He showed no human emotion whether of anger, 
 regret, disappointment, expectation or sorrow. 
 
 He told no jolly stories of other tenants nor of life about 
 town such as Henry would have liked him to tell. He had, 
 Henry was sure, a great contempt for Henry. He was not, 
 from any point of view, a lovable human being. 
 
 Henry did what he could for his room, he was proud of it, 
 felt very kindly towards it and wanted to clothe it with beauty. 
 It is difficult, however, to make a room beautiful unless the 
 wall-paper and the carpet contribute something. Henry had a 
 nice writing-table that his Uncle Timothy had given him, a 
 gate-legged table from his sister Katherine and a fine Regency 
 bookcase stolen by him from his Westminster home. He had 
 three pictures, a Japanese print, a copy of Mr. Belcher's draw- 
 ing of Pat O'Keefe, "The Wild Irishman," and a little water- 
 colour by Lovat Frazer of a king and queen marching into a 
 banquet-hall and attended by their courtiers. This last, splendid 
 in gold and blue, green and red was the joy of Henry's heart 
 and had been given him by his sister Millicent on his last 
 birthday. 
 
 In the book-case there were, on the whole, the books that you 
 would expect the poems of Swinburne, Dowson, and Baude- 
 laire, some of the 1890 novelists and one or two moderns. But 
 he was also beginning to collect a few rare editions, and he 
 had Clarissa and The Mysteries of TJdulpho and The Monk in 
 their original bindings, and an early Pilgrim's Progress, a rather 
 rare Donne and a second Vicar of WaJcefield. These were hia 
 greatest treasures. He had only two photographs in his room 
 his sisters and that of his greatest and perhaps his only 
 friend. These stood one on either side of the very plain alarm- 
 clock that took the middle of the mantelpiece. 
 
 Henry, as he sat on his bed, looking before him out of the 
 little window across to the corner gables of the Comedy Theatre, 
 appeared very much the same crude and callow youth that he 
 had seemed on going up to Oxford just before the war.
 
 34 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 He had not yet caught up to his size which had leapt ahead 
 of his years when he was ahout sixteen. He was still long, 
 lean, and untidy, his black hair refusing any kind of control, 
 his complexion poor with a suspicion of incipient pimple, hia 
 ears too red, his hands never quite clean. The same and yet 
 not at all the same. 
 
 The hint of heauty that there had heen when he was nineteen 
 in the eyes and mouth and carriage of neck and shoulders wad 
 now, when he was twenty-six, more clearly emphasized. At 
 first sight Henry seemed an untidy and rather uncleanly youth; 
 look again and you would see quite clearly that he would be, one 
 day, a distinguished man. His untidiness, the way that his 
 trousers bagged at the knee, that he carried, like some knight 
 with his lady's favour, the inevitable patch of white on his 
 sleeve, that his boots were not rightly laced and his socks not 
 sufficiently "suspended" these things only indicated that he 
 was in the last division of the intermediate class, between youth 
 and manhood. 
 
 The war had very nearly made him a man, and had not the 
 authorities discovered, after his first wound in 1915, that he was 
 quite hopeless in command of other men but not at all a fool 
 at intelligence he would have been a man complete by this time. 
 The war smartened him a little but not very much, and the 
 moment he was free he slipped back into his old ways and his 
 old customs with a sigh of relief. 
 
 But there again not entirely. Like his cousin John, who was 
 killed in Galicia in 1915, stretcher-bearing for the Eussians, he 
 was awkward in body but clean in soul. The war had only 
 emphasized something in him that was there before it, and the 
 year and a half that he spent with his family in the Westmin- 
 ster house after the Armistice was the most terrible time of his 
 life. No one knew what to do with him. His mother had had a 
 stroke in the spring of 1917 and now lay like a corpse at the top 
 of the old house, watching, listening, suffering an agony of 
 rebellion in her proud and obstinate soul. With her influence 
 gone, his grandfather and his great-aunt Sarah dead, his two 
 aunts Betty and Anne living in the country down at Walton-on- 
 Thames, his father more and more living his own life in his 
 study, his sister Katherine married and involved now entirely
 
 HENKY HIMSELF 35 
 
 in her own affairs, Henry felt the big house a mausoleum of all 
 his hopes and ambitions. Return to Oxford he would not. 
 Strike out and live on his one hundred and fifty pounds he 
 would at the first possible moment, but one thing after another 
 prevented him. He remained in that grim and chilly house 
 mainly because of his sister Millicent, whom he loved with all 
 his heart and soul, and for whom he would do anything in the 
 world. 
 
 She also had a little money of her own, but the striking out 
 was a little difficult for her. Her father and mother, all the 
 relations said, needed her, and it wanted all the year and a half 
 to prove to the relations that this was not so. Her father 
 scarcely saw her except at breakfast and, although he regarded 
 her with a kindly patronage, he preferred greatly his books, his 
 club, and his daily newspaper. Her mother did not need her at 
 all, having been angered before the war at the action that Millie 
 took in the great family quarrel of Katherine v. Mrs. Trenchard, 
 and being now completely under the control of a hard and 
 tyrannical woman, Nurse Bennett, whose word now was law in 
 the house, whose slightest look was a command. 
 
 Millicent and Henry determined that when they escaped it 
 should be together. Millicent had her own plans, and after 
 some months of mysterious advertising in the newspaper, of 
 interviews and secret correspondences, she secured the post of 
 secretary companion to a certain Miss Victoria Platt who lived 
 at 85 Cromwell Road, Kensington. At the very same time 
 Philip found for Henry the secretaryship of which I have 
 already spoken. They escaped then together Millicent to 
 rooms at the top of Baker Street that she shared with a girl 
 friend, Mary Cass, and Henry to the hospitality of Mr. King. 
 Their engagements also were to begin together, Millicent going 
 to Miss Platt for the first time on the morning after the day 
 of which I am writing, Henry to go to his Baronet on the day 
 after that. 
 
 They were beginning the world together. There was surely a 
 fine omen in that. Apart they would do great things but, 
 together, was there anything they could not do? 
 
 At 7.15 that evening, bathed in the blue dusk that filtered
 
 36 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 in through the little attic window Henry was sitting on his bed 
 staring, wide-eyed, in front of him. 
 
 At 8.15 on that same evening, hidden now by the purple 
 shades of night he was still sitting there, his mouth open, 
 staring in front of him. It is desperately platitudinous it is 
 also desperately true, that there is no falling in love like the 
 first falling in love. And Henry was fortunate in this that he 
 had fallen in love for the first time at a comparatively ripe age. 
 To some it is the governess or the music-master, to some even 
 the nurse or the gardener's boy. But Henry had in the absolute 
 truth of the absolute word never been in love before to-night. 
 
 He had loved yes. First his mother, then his sister Kath- 
 erine, then his sister Millicent, then his friend Westcott. These 
 affections had been loyal and true and profound but they had 
 been of the heart and the brain, and for true love the lust of 
 the flesh must be added to the lust of the mind and the heart. 
 
 He had tumbled in then, to-day, head foremost, right in, 
 with all his hero-worship, his adoration, his ignorance, hia 
 purity, his trust and confidence, fresh, clean, unsullied to offer 
 as acceptable gifts. He could not, sitting on his bed, think it 
 out clearly at all. He could only see everything in a rosy mist 
 and in the heart of the mist a flaming feather, and Piccadilly 
 boiling and bubbling and Mrs. Tenssen with her bright green 
 dress and the stable-yard and the teapot with the flowers and 
 there somewhere behind these things that girl with her fair 
 hair, her unhappy gaze beyond him, far far beyond him, into 
 worlds that were not as yet his but that one day might be. 
 And with all this his heart pounding in a strange suffocating 
 manner, his eyes burning, his throat choking, his brain refusing 
 to bring before him two connected thoughts. 
 
 At last, when St. James's Church struck half-past eight a 
 thought did penetrate. 
 
 He had promised to go to the Hunters' evening party. Never 
 less did he want to go to a party than to-night. He would wish 
 to continue to sit on his bed and study the rosy mist. "I will sit 
 here," he said, "and perhaps soon the face will come to me just 
 as it was. I can't see it now, but if I wait. . . ." Then he 
 had cramp in his leg and the sudden jerk shot him from the 
 bed and forced him to stand in the middle of the floor in an
 
 HESTKY HIMSELF 37 
 
 extraordinary attitude with one leg stiff and the other bent as 
 though he were Nijinsky practising for the "Spectre do la 
 Rose." 
 
 The shock of his agony drove him to consider two very good 
 reasons for going to the Hunters' party. One was material 
 namely, that he had had nothing to eat since Mrs. Tenssen's pink 
 cake, that he was very hungry in spite of his love and that there 
 would be free sandwiches at the Hunters. The other reason 
 was a better one namely, that it was possible that his friend 
 Westcott would be there and to Westcott, above all human 
 beings, save only Millicent, he wished to confide the history 
 of his adventure. 
 
 Concerning his friendship with Westcott a word must be 
 said. About a year ago at the house of a friend of Philip's he 
 had been introduced to a thick-set saturnine man who had 
 been sitting by himself in a corner and appearing entirely bored 
 with the evening's proceedings. His host had thrown Henry at 
 this unattractive guest's head as though he would say: "I dare 
 not offer up any of my more important guests to this Cerberus 
 of a fellow, but here's a young ass who doesn't matter and I 
 don't care whether his feelings are hurt or no." Henry himself 
 was at this time cultivating a supercilious air in public, partly 
 from shyness and partly because he did not wish to reveal how 
 deeply pleased he was at being invited to parties. He liked at 
 once Westcott's broad shoulders, close-cropped hair and non- 
 chalant attitude. The first ten minutes of their conversation 
 was not a success, and then Henry discovered that Westcott had, 
 in the days of his youth, actually known, spoken to, had tea 
 with the God of his, Henry's, idolatry, Henry Galleon. Westcott 
 was perhaps touched by } r oung Henry's ingenuous delight, his 
 eager questions, his complete forgetfulness of himself and his 
 surroundings at this piece of information. He in his turn 
 launched out and talked of the London of fifteen years ago and 
 of the heroes of that time, a time that the war had made historic, 
 curious, picturesque, a time that was already older than crino- 
 lines, almost as romantic as the Regency. Their host left them 
 together for the remainder of the evening, feeling that he had 
 most skilfully killed two dull birds with one stone. They 
 departed together, walked from Hyde Park Corner together and
 
 38 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 by the time that they parted were already friends. That friend- 
 ship had held firm throughout the succeeding year. As a 
 friendship it was good for both of them. Westcott was very 
 lonely and too proud to go out and draw men in. Henry needed 
 just such an influence as Westcotf s, the influence of a man 
 who had known life at its hardest and bitterest, who had come 
 through betrayal, disappointed ambition, poverty and loneliness! 
 without losing his courage and belief in life, a man whose heart 
 was still warm towards his fellowmen although he kept it 
 guarded now lest he should too easily be again betrayed. 
 
 There was no need to keep it guarded from Henry whose 
 transparent honesty could not be mistaken. Henry restored 
 something of Westcott's lost confidence in himself. Henry 
 believed profoundly in what he insisted on calling Westcott's 
 "genius," and that even the simplest soul on earth should believe 
 in us gives some support to our doubting hopes and wavering 
 ambitions. Henry admitted quite frankly to Westcott that he 
 had not heard of him before he met him. Peter's novels 
 Reuben Hallard, The Stone House, Mortimer Slant and two 
 others had been before Henry's time and the little stir that 
 Reuben had made had not penetrated the thick indifference of 
 his school-days. Westcott was not at all sensitive to this igno- 
 rance. Before the war he had broken entirely with the literary 
 life and his five years' war service abroad had not encouraged 
 him to renew that intimacy. He had had hard starving days 
 since the Armistice and had been driven back almost against 
 his will to some reviewing and writing of articles. 
 
 All men had not forgotten him he discovered with a strange 
 dim pleasure that beat like a regret deep into his soul the 
 younger men especially because he had been a commercial failure 
 were inclined to believe that he had been an artistic success. 
 Mysterious allusions were made in strange new variegated 
 publications to Reuben Hallard and Mortimer Stant. 
 
 He began to review regularly for The Athenaeum- and The New 
 Statesman, and he did some dramatic criticism for The Nation. 
 He soon found to his own surprise that he was making income 
 enough to live without anxiety in two small rooms in the 
 Marylebone High Street, where he was cared for by a kindly 
 widow, Mrs. Sunning, who found that he resembled her son
 
 HENKY HIMSELF 39 
 
 who was killed in the war and therefore adored him. Even, 
 against his will, all his hopes, there were faint stirrings of a 
 novel in his brain. He did not wish to revive that ambition 
 again, but the thing would come and settle there and stir a 
 little and grow day by day, night by night, in spite of his 
 reluctance and even hostility. 
 
 Perhaps in this Henry had some responsibility. Henry was 
 so sure that Peter had only to begin again and the world would 
 be at his feet. One night, the two of them sitting over a small 
 grumbling fire in the Coventry Street attic, Peter spoke a little 
 in detail of his book. 
 
 After that Henry never left him alone. The book was born 
 now in Henry's brain as well as in Peter's; it knew its own. 
 power and that its time would come. 
 
 Peter had by no means confided all his life's history to 
 Henry. The boy only knew that there had been a great 
 tragedy, that Westcott was married but did not know where 
 his wife was or even whether she were still alive. Of all this 
 he spoke to no man. 
 
 Gabriel Hunter was a painter of the new and extravagant 
 kind; his wife wore bobbed hair, wrote poetry and cultivated a 
 little Salon in Barton Street, Westminster, where they lived. 
 
 The Hunters were poor and their house was very small and 
 quite a small number of people caused it to overflow, but to 
 Henry during the last year the Hunter gatherings had stood 
 to him for everything in life that was worth while. It was 
 one of his real griefs that Millicent wouldn't go to that house, 
 declaring that she hated the new poets and the new painters and 
 the new novelists, that she liked Tennyson and Trollope and 
 John Everett Millais and that as soon as she had a house of her 
 own she was going to collect wax flowers and fruit and horse- 
 hair sofas. She said many of these things to irritate Henry and 
 irritate him she did, being able to separate him from his very 
 volcanic temper within the space of two minutes if she tried 
 hard enough. 
 
 On every other occasion going to the Hunter's had been 
 synonymous to Henry with going to Paradise. To-night for 
 the first time it seemed to be simply going to Westminster. At 
 last, however, hunger drove him, and at a quarter-past nine he
 
 40 THE YOTJtfG ENCHANTED 
 
 found himself in the Hunters' little hall, all painted green with 
 red stripes and a curtain covered with purple bananas and 
 bright crimson oranges hanging in front of the kitchen stairs. 
 
 The noise above was deafening and had that peculiarly shrill 
 sound which the New literature seems to carry with it in its 
 train, just as a new baby enjoys its new rattle. When Henry 
 peered into the little drawing-room he could see very little 
 because of the smoke. The scene outlined from the doorway 
 must have seemed to an unprepared stranger to resemble nothing 
 so much as a little study in the Inferno painted by one of the 
 younger artists. Behind and through the smoke there were 
 visions of a wall of bright orange and curtains of a brilliant 
 purple. On the mantelpiece staring through the room and 
 grinning malevolently was the cast of a negro's head. 
 
 A large globe hanging from the ceiling concealed the electric 
 light behind patterns of every conceivable colour. The guests 
 were sitting on the floor, on a crimson sofa, and standing against 
 the wall. Henry soon discovered that to-night's was a very 
 representative gathering. 
 
 Standing just inside the door he felt for the first time in the 
 Hunters' house perfectly detached from the whole affair. Always 
 before he had loved the sensation of plunging in, of that sudden 
 immersion in light and colour and noise, of swimming with all 
 the others towards some ideally fantastic island of culture that 
 would be entirely, triumphantly their own. But to-night the 
 intense personal experience that he had just passed through kept 
 him apart, led him to criticize and inspect as though he were a 
 visitor from another planet. Was that in itself a criticism of 
 the whole world of Art and Literature proving to him that that 
 must always crumble before real life, or was it simply a criticism 
 of some of the crudity and newness of this especial gathering? 
 Peering through the smoke and relieved that no one appeared 
 to take the slightest notice of him, he saw that this was indeed 
 a representative gathering because all the Three Graces were 
 here together. Never before had he seen them all at one time 
 in the same place. Whether it were because of the exhaustion 
 that five years' war had entailed upon the men of the country 
 or simply that the complete emancipation of women during the 
 last decade had brought many new positions within women's
 
 HENEY HIMSELF 41 
 
 power it was certain that just at this period, that is at the be- 
 ginning of 1920, much of the contemporary judgement on art 
 and letters was delivered by women and in letters by three 
 women especially, Miss Talbot, Miss Jane Ross and Miss Martha 
 Proctor. These three ladies had certain attributes in common 
 a healthy and invigorating contempt for the abilities of the 
 opposite sex, a sure and certain confidence in their own powers 
 and a love of novelty and originality. Miss Talbot, seated now 
 upon the red sofa, was the reviewer of fiction in The Planet. 
 She was the most feminine of the three, slight in stature, fair- 
 haired and blue-eyed, languid and even timid in appearance. 
 Her timidity was a disguise; week after week did she destroy 
 the novels before her, adroitly, dispassionately and with a fine 
 disregard for the humaner feelings. In her there burnt, how- 
 ever, a truer and finer love of literature than either Jane Rosa 
 or Martha Proctor would ever know. She had ever before her 
 young vision her picture of the perfect novel, and week after 
 week she showed her scorn in italicized staccato prose for the 
 poor specimens that so brazenly ventured to interfere between 
 her vision and herself. 
 
 Had she her way no novelist alive should remain ungoaded, 
 so vile a sin had he committed in thus with his soiled and 
 clumsy fingers desecrating the power, beauty and wisdom of an 
 impossible ideal. 
 
 Meanwhile she made a very good income out of her unending 
 disappointment. 
 
 Far other Jane Ross. 
 
 Jane Ross was plain, pasty-faced, hook-nosed, squat-figured, 
 beetle-browed, and she was the cleverest journalist at that time 
 alive in England. Originally, ten years ago when she came 
 from the Midlands with a penny in her pocket and a determina- 
 tion to make her way, it may have been that she cared for litera- 
 ture with a passion as pure and undeviating as Grace Talbot's 
 own. But great success, a surprised discovery of men's weak- 
 ness and sloth, a talent for epigrams unequalled by any of her 
 contemporaries had led her to sacrifice all her permanent stan- 
 dards for temporary brilliance. She was also something of a 
 cat, being possessed suddenly to her own discontent by little 
 personal animosities and grievances that she might have con-
 
 42 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 trolled quite easily had not her tongue so brilliantly led her 
 away. She had, deep down in her soul, noble intentions, but 
 the daily pettinesses of life were too strong fer her; she won all 
 her battles so easily that she did not perceive that she was 
 meanwhile losing the only battle that really mattered. As her 
 journalism grew more and more brilliant her real influence 
 grew less and less. When her brain was inactive her heart, 
 suddenly released, could be wonderfully kind. A little more 
 stupidity and she would have been a real power. 
 
 For both Grace Talbot and Jane Boss the new thing was 
 the only thing that mattered. When you listened to them, 
 or read them you would suppose that printing had been dis- 
 covered for the first time somewhere about 1890 and in Man- 
 chester. Martha Proctor, less brilliant than the other two, 
 had a wider culture than either of them. The first glance at 
 her told you that she was a journalist, tall, straight-backed, her 
 black hair brushed back from a high forehead, dressed in. 
 tweeds, stiff white collars, and cuffs, wearing pince-nez, she 
 seemed to have nothing to do with the prevalent fashion. And 
 she had not. Older than the other two she had come in with 
 the Yellow Book and promised to go out with Universal Suf- 
 frage. She had fought her battles; in politics her finest time 
 had been in the years just before the war when she had bitten. 
 a policeman's leg in Whitehall and broken a shop-window in 
 Bond Street with her little hammer. In literature her great 
 period had been du<ring the Romantic Tushery of 1895 to 1905. 
 How she had torn and scarified the Kailyard novelists, how 
 the Cloak and Sword Romances had bled beneath her whip. 
 Now none of these remained and the modern Realism had gone 
 far beyond her most confident anticipations. She knew inher 
 heart that her day was over; there was even, deep down within 
 her, a faint alarm at the times that were coming upon the 
 world. She knew that she seemed old-fashioned to Jane 
 Ross and her only comfort was that in ten years' time Jane Ross 
 would undoubtedly in her turn seem old-fashioned to some- 
 body else. Because her horizon was wider than that of her 
 two companions she was able to judge in finer proportion than 
 they. Fashions passed, men died, kingdoms fell. What re-
 
 HENRY HIMSELF 43 
 
 mained? Not, as she had once fondly imagined, Martha 
 Proctor. 
 
 Two children and a cottage in the country might after all 
 be worth more than literary criticism. She was beginning to 
 wonder about many things for the first time in her life. . . . 
 
 I have outlined these ladies in some detail because for the 
 past year and a half Henry had worshipped at their shrines. 
 How he had revelled in Grace Talbot's cynical judgments, in 
 Jane Boss's epigrams, in Martha Proctor's measured compari- 
 sons! To-night for the first time a new vision was upon him. 
 He could only see them, as he stared at them through the 
 smoke, with physical eyes Grace Talbot's languid indifference, 
 white hands and faint blue eyes. Jane Ross's sallow com- 
 plexion and crinkled black hair ; Martha Proctor's pince-nez and 
 large brown boots. 
 
 Then, as his short-sighted eyes penetrated yet more clearly 
 
 he saw Could it be? Indeed it was. His heart beat 
 
 quickly. There seated uncomfortably upon an orange chair 
 from Heal's was no less a person than the great K. Wiggs 
 himself. Henry had seen him on two other occasions, had 
 once indeed spoken to him. 
 
 That earlier glorious moment was strong with him now, the 
 thrill of it, the almost passionate excitement of touching that 
 small podgy hand, the very hand that had written Mr. Whippet 
 and Old Cain and Abel and The Slumber Family. 
 
 What then to-night had happened to Henry? Why was it 
 that with every longing to recover that earlier thrill he could 
 not? Why was it that again, as just now with the Three 
 Graces, he could see only Mr. Wiggs's physical presence and 
 nothing at all of his splendid and aspiring soul? Mr. Wigga 
 certainly did not look his best on an orange chair with a stiff 
 back. 
 
 And then surely he had fattened and coarsened, even since 
 Henry's last vision of him? His squat figure perched on the 
 chair, his little fat legs crossed, his bulging stomach, his two 
 chins, his ragged moustache, his eyes coloured a faint purple, 
 his thin whispy hair these things did not speak for beauty. 
 Nor did the voice that penetrated through the clamour to
 
 44 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 Henry's corner, with its shrill piping clamour, give full re- 
 assurance. 
 
 It was not, no alas, it was not the voice of a just soul; 
 there was, moreover, a snuffle behind the pipe that spoke of 
 adenoids it is very hard to reconcile adenoids with greatness. 
 
 And yet Wiggs was a great man ! You knew that if only 
 by the virulence with which certain sections of the press attacked 
 him whenever he made a public appearance. 
 
 He was a great man. He is a great man. Henry repeated 
 the words over to himself with a desperate determination to re- 
 cover the earlier rapture. He had written great books; he was 
 even then writing them. He was, as Henry knew, a kindly 
 man, a generous man, a man with noble and generous am- 
 bitions, a man honest in his resolves and courageous in his 
 utterances. Why then did he look like that and why was 
 Henry so stupidly conscious of his body and of his body only? 
 Could it be that the adventure of the afternoon had filled his 
 young soul with so high and splendid an ideal of beauty that 
 everything else in the world was sordid and ugly? He moved 
 restlessly. He did not want to think life sordid and ugly. 
 But was this life? Or at any rate was it not simply a very, 
 very small part of life? Was he moving at last from a small 
 ante-room into a large and spacious chamber? (I have said 
 before that picturesque images occurred to him with the utmost 
 frequency.) 
 
 He caught fragments of conversation. A lady quite close 
 to him was saying "But there's no Form in the thing no 
 Form at all. He hadn't thought the thing out it's all just 
 anyhow. . . ." 
 
 Somewhere else he heard a man's deep bass roice "Oh, he's 
 no good. He'll always be an amateur. Of course it's obvious 
 you miss truth the moment you go outside the narrator's brain. 
 Now Truth . . ." 
 
 And Wigg's shrill, pipe "Ow, no. That isn't History. 
 That's fable. What do facts matter?" 
 
 There was a little stir by the door. Henry turned and found 
 Peter Westcott standing at his side. 
 
 He was instantly delighted to perceive that the change that 
 had crept over him since the afternoon did not include Peter.
 
 45 
 
 His feeling for Peter was the same that it had ever been, in- 
 tensified if possible. He loved Peter as he stood there, strong, 
 apart, independent, resolute. That was the kind of independence 
 that Henry himself must achieve so that he would not be 
 swayed by every little emotional and critical wind that blew. 
 
 "Hallo, Peter," he said, "I was looking for you." 
 
 "You haven't been looking very hard," said Peter. "I've 
 been here a long time." 
 
 "There's so much smoke," said Henry. 
 
 "Yes, there is. And I've had enough of it. And I'm going." 
 
 "I'm going too," said Henry. "Mrs. Hunter has looked at 
 me twice and I don't believe that she's the least idea who I am." 
 
 "You're going?" said Westcott astonished. "Why, you love 
 these parties. I expected you to be here all night." 
 
 "I don't love it to-night," said Henry solemnly. "It all seems 
 silly. Let's go." 
 
 They went down into the Hall, found their coats and passed 
 into the serenity and peace of Barton Street. 
 
 "Do you mind walking a bit?" asked Henry. 
 
 "As a matter of fact," said Westcott, "I'm going to walk all 
 the way home. I'll take you up through Coventry Street if you 
 like and drop you at your Palace." 
 
 "I only went there to-night to see you," said Henry. "I've 
 got something very important to tell you." 
 
 They walked in silence into Whitehall. Henry found it 
 difficult to begin and Westcott never spoke unless he had some- 
 thing that he really wanted to say a reason sufficient for the 
 reputation of sulkiness that many people gave him. The beauty 
 of the night too kept them silent. After that hot, over-coloured 
 room London was like some vast, gently moving lake upon 
 whose bosom floated towers and lamps and swinging barges 
 myriads of stars were faint behind a spring mist that veiled, 
 revealed and veiled again an orange moon. 
 
 Only the towers of the Houses of Parliament were sharp and 
 distinct and they too seemed to move with the gentle rhythm 
 as though they were the bulwarks of some giant ship sailing 
 towards some certain destination. 
 
 So quiet was the world that all life seemed to be hypnotized 
 into wondering expectation.
 
 46 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 "Well now, Henry, what is it?" asked Peter at last. 
 
 "It's the most extraordinary thing," said Henry. "I suppose 
 you'll laugh at me. Anybody would. But I just couldn't help 
 myself. It didn't seem like myself doing it." 
 
 "Doing what?" 
 
 "Why, before I knew I was following them. And I hadn't 
 any reason to follow them. That's the funny thing. Only I'd 
 just fallen down." 
 
 Peter turned upon him. "For God's sake, Henry, get it 
 straight, whom were you following and where? And where did 
 you fall down?" 
 
 "In Piccadilly Circus. I was just staring around and some 
 one pushed me and I fell on to my knees and when I'd picked 
 myself up again they'd got half-way across " 
 
 '"They? Who?" 
 
 'Why the woman and her daughter. At least of course I 
 didn't know she was her daughter then. It was only after- 
 wards " 
 
 Peter was irritable. "Look here, if you don't straighten 
 everything out and tell me it all quite simply from the be- 
 ginning with names and dates and everything I leave you 
 instantly and never see you again." 
 
 Henry tried again and, staring in front of him so that he 
 stumbled and walked like a man in a dream, he recovered it all, 
 seeing freshly as though he were acting in it once more and 
 giving it to Westcott with such vivid drama that they had 
 arrived outside the door in Panton Street as though they had 
 been carried there on a magic carpet. "And after that," 
 finished Henry, "I just came home and I've been thinking about 
 her ever since." 
 
 The street was very quiet. Within the theatre rows and 
 rows of human beings were at that moment sitting, their mouths 
 open and their knees pressed together while "The Euined 
 Lady" went through incredible antics for their benefit. Out- 
 side the theatre a few cars were standing, a man or two lounged 
 against the wall, and the stars and the orange moon released now 
 from their entangling mist, shone like lights through a tattered 
 awning down upon the glassy surface of the street. Peter 
 put his hand upon Henry's shoulder ; the boy was trembling.
 
 HEKRY HIMSELF 47 
 
 my advice," he said, "and drop it." 
 
 "What do you mean ?" asked Henry fiercely. 
 
 "Of course you won't follow my advice, but I'm older than 
 you are. You asked me to advise you and Fm going to. Don't 
 you see what those two women are? If you don't you're even 
 more of an ass than I know you to be." 
 
 "What do you mean?" said Henry again. 
 
 "Well, just ask yourself, what kind of a woman is it who 
 when a strange man bursts in through her window smiles and 
 asks him to tea?" 
 
 "If she's like that," said Henry angrily, "then all the more 
 I've got to get the girl out of it." 
 
 Peter shrugged his shoulders, "I bet the girl knows what 
 she's about," he said. 
 
 Henry laughed scornfully. "That's the worst of you, 
 Peter," he said. "You're a cynic. You don't believe in any- 
 body or in anything. You always see things at their worst." 
 
 Peter smiled. "That's as may be/' he said. "I believe in 
 you anyway. You know quite well that if you get in a mess 
 I've got to pull you out of it. I'm only warning you. If you 
 like, I'll go with you next time and see the girl." 
 
 Henry looked up at the moon. "I know I'm an ass about 
 some things," he said. "But I'm not an ass about this. I'll 
 save her if I die for it." 
 
 Peter was touched. 
 
 "You're bewitched," he said, "I was once. I don't want to 
 wake you up. The only trouble with these things is that the 
 enchantment doesn't last but the things we do under the en- 
 chantment do. 
 
 "However, ifs better to have been enchanted, whatever comes 
 of it, than never to have been enchanted at all. Will you 
 promise me one thing?" 
 
 "What's that?" asked Henry. 
 
 "To tell me everything, exactly, truthfully." 
 
 "Yes, if you don't laugh at me." 
 
 "No, I won't unless you can laugh as well. But you're 
 going to get into a mess over this as sure as you're Henry 
 Trenchard, and if I don't know all about it, I sha'n't be able 
 to help you when the time comes that you need me."
 
 48 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 "I'll tell you everything," said Henry fervently. 
 
 "When do you go to your old Baronet ?" 
 
 "The day after to-morrow." 
 
 "Well, I'll come in and see you here that afternoon about 
 five and get your news. Is that all right?" 
 
 "Yes," said Henry. "Isn't it a wonderful night? I think 
 I'll walk about a bit." 
 
 "You're going to look up at her window ?" 
 
 Henry blushed, a thing he did very easily. "You can't see 
 her window from the street," he said. "It's quite true I might 
 go round that way." 
 
 Westcott went off laughing. The moon and Henry were left 
 alone together.
 
 CHAPTEE III 
 
 MILLIE 
 
 MILLICENT TEENCHABD was at this time twenty-five 
 years of age. 
 
 She had been pretty at eighteen, she was beautiful now, 
 beautiful in the real sense of that terribly abused word, because 
 she aroused interest as well as admiration in the beholder. The 
 questions asked about her would be always different ones, de- 
 pending for their impulse on the private instincts and desires 
 of the individual. 
 
 Her eyes were large, dark, her figure slender, her colouring 
 fair, her hair (she had a mass of it) dark brown with some 
 shadow of dull gold in its threads, her neck and shoulders 
 lovely with a pure healthy whiteness of colour and form that 
 only youth could give her, her chin strong and determined but 
 not exaggerated all this catalogue is useless. Her beauty did 
 not lie in these things, but in the vitality, the freedom, the 
 humour, the wildness of her spirit. Her eyes, the dimple in her 
 cheek, the high, clear forehead spoke of kindness, generosity, 
 love of her fellowmen, but it was the quality behind those 
 things, the quality of a soul absolutely free and independent but 
 not selfish, open-minded and honest but neither dogmatic nor 
 impertinent, young and ignorant perhaps but ready for any 
 discovery, fearless and excited but tender and soft-hearted, un- 
 sentimental but loyal-hearted, that finally told. Although her 
 means were so slender she dressed admirably, liking bright col- 
 ours, crimson and purple and orange, but never looking so 
 well as when she was in the simplest black. 
 
 She knew everything about dress by natural instinct, could 
 make clothes out of nothing at all (not so difficult in 1920), was 
 able to buy things in the cheapest way at the smartest shops, 
 and really spent less time and thought over all these things 
 
 49
 
 50 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 than most of the clumsily dressed girls of her acquaintance. 
 She was always neat ; her gloves and her shoes and her stockings 
 were as fine as those of any lady in the land. She was never 
 extravagant in the fashion of the moment nor was she outside 
 it ; when women of sixty wore skirts that belonged more properly 
 to their granddaughters, she who might with pride have been 
 short-skirted was not. 
 
 And, just at this time, she was so happy that it made you 
 afraid to watch her. Mary Cass, her friend, was often afraid. 
 
 Miss Cass was five years older than Millicent and had seen a 
 great deal of life. She had driven an ambulance in France, 
 and it was afterwards, when nursing in a hospital in Boulogne, 
 that she and Millicent had made friends. She had nursed with 
 the same quiet capacity with which she had driven her ambu- 
 lance, and now she was studying at the Women's College of 
 Medicine and at the end of her five years' course was going to be 
 one of the most efficient women surgeons in Europe. That was 
 what she set in front of her, and the things that she set in 
 front of her she obtained. She was a little, insignificant, mild- 
 eyed mouse of a woman with a very determined chin; she had 
 none of Millicent's gaiety and wild zest for life. Life seemed 
 to her rather a poor thing at best ; she had no great expectations 
 of it, but, on the other hand, bore no one a grudge because she 
 was in the midst of it. So long as she was working at some- 
 thing she was happy; she was fond of Millicent but not ex- 
 travagant about her. 
 
 Her work was more to her than any human being, and she 
 would have liked Millicent to look on work with a deeper serious- 
 ness. This was their one deep difference of opinion, that to 
 Mary Cass work was more than human nature and that to 
 Millicent people were everything. "I'd rather live with people 
 I love than write the greatest book in the world/' Millicent said. 
 "I believe, Mary, that you only make a friend because you hope 
 one day to be able to cut his or her leg off/' 
 
 "I'd do it very nicely/' said Mary gravely. 
 
 There was a further little trouble between them that Mary 
 was rather impatient of Henry. She thought him untidy, care- 
 less, inaccurate, clumsy and sentimental; he was undoubtedly
 
 MILLIE 51 
 
 all of these things Millicent, of course, adored Henry and 
 would not hear a word against him from anybody. 
 
 "He's only careless because he's a genius," she said. 
 
 "When's he going to begin his genius?" asked Mary. "He's 
 twenty-six now." 
 
 "He has begun it. He's written ten chapters of a novel." 
 
 "Whafs it about?" asked Mary, with an irritating little sniff 
 that she used on occasions. 
 
 "It's about the Eighteenth Century/' said Millie, "and a 
 house in a wood " 
 
 "People want something more real nowadays," said Mary. 
 
 "He hasn't got to think of what people want/' answered Millie 
 hotly. "He's got to write what he feels." 
 
 'Tie's got to make his bread and butter/' said Miss Cass 
 grimly. 
 
 Nevertheless it may be suspected that she liked Henry more 
 than she allowed; only her fingers itched to be at him, at his 
 collar and his socks and his boots and his tie. But she believed 
 about this, as she did about everything else, that her day 
 would come. 
 
 On the morning that Millie was to go to Miss Platt's for the 
 first time she dressed with the greatest care. She put on a 
 plain black dress and designed to wear with it a little roiind red 
 hat. She also wore a necklace of small pearls that her father had 
 once given her in a sudden swiftly vanishing moment of emo- 
 tion at her surprising beauty. When she came into the little 
 sitting-room to breakfast she was compelled to confess to herself 
 that she was feeling extremely nervous, and this amazed her be- 
 cause she so seldom felt nervous about anything. But it would 
 be too awful if this Platt affair went wrong ! To begin all over 
 again with those advertisements, those absurd letters, that 
 sudden contact with a world that seemed to be entirely in- 
 capacitated and desperately to need help without in the least 
 being willing to pay for it ! 
 
 That was the real point about Miss Platt, that she was 
 willing to pay. The brief interview had shown Millicent a 
 middle-aged, rather stout woman, with a face like a strawberry 
 that is afraid that at any moment it may be eaten, over-dressed, 
 nervous and in some as yet undefined way, a little touching. She
 
 52 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 had taken, it seemed, to Millicent at once, calling her "my dear" 
 and wanting to pay her anything in reason. "I'm so tired/' she 
 said, "and I've seen so many women. They are all so pale. I 
 want some one bright about the house." 
 
 Upon this foundation the bargain had been struck, and Milli- 
 cent, looking back at it, was compelled to admit that it was all 
 rather slender. She had intended to talk to Mary Cass about it 
 at breakfast, to drive her into reassuring her, but discovered, 
 as so many of us have discovered before now, that our nearest 
 and dearest have, and especially at breakfast, their own lives 
 to lead and their own problems to encounter. Mary's brain 
 was intent upon the dissection of a frog, and although her 
 heart belonged to Millie, medical science had for the moment 
 closed it. Millie therefore left the house in a mood of despond- 
 ency, very rare indeed with her. She travelled on the top of a 
 succession of omnibuses to Cromwell Eoad. She had time to 
 spare and it was a lovely spring morning; she liked beyond all 
 things to look down over the side of the omnibus and see all 
 the scattered fragmentary life that went on beneath her. This 
 morning every one was clothed in sun, the buildings shone and 
 all the people seemed to be dressed in bright colours. London 
 could look on such a morning so easy and comfortable and happy- 
 go-lucky, like a little provincial town, in the way that butchers 
 stout and rubicund stood in front of their shops, and the 
 furniture shops flung sofas and chairs, coal-scuttles and book' 
 cases right out into the pavement with a casual, homely air, and 
 flower-shops seemed to invite you to smell their flowers without 
 paying for it, and women walked shopping with their hand-baga 
 carefully clutched, and boys dashed about on bicycles with a 
 free, unrestrained ecstasy, as though they were doing it simply 
 for their amusement. Other cities had surely acquired by now a 
 more official air, but London would be casual, untidy and good- 
 natured to the last trump, thank God ! 
 
 Millie soon recovered her very best spirits, and was not in 
 the least offended when a seedy young man stared at her from 
 an opposite seat and wetted his lips with his tongue as though 
 he were tasting something very good indeed. 
 
 She had, however, to summon all her spirits to her aid when 
 Cromwell Road encompassed her. Eows and rows of houses
 
 MILLIE 53 
 
 all the same, wearing the air, with their white steps, their 
 polished door-handles and the ferns in the window, of a middle- 
 aged business man dressed for church on a Sunday morning. 
 They were smug and without personality. They were thinking 
 about nothing but themselves. No. 85 was as smug as the 
 others. 
 
 She rang the bell, and soon a small boy dressed in a blue 
 uniform and brass buttons stared at her and appeared to be 
 incapable of understanding a word that she said. 
 
 He stared at her with such astonishment that she was able 
 to push past him into the hall before he could prevent her. 
 
 "You can't see Miss 'Toria," he was heard at last to say in a 
 hoarse voice. "She don't see any one before she's up." 
 
 "I think she'll see me," said Millie quietly. "She's expecting 
 me." 
 
 He continued to stare, and she suggested that he should go 
 and inquire of somebody else. He was away for so long a time 
 that she was able to observe how full the hall was of furniture, 
 and how strangely confused that furniture was. Near the hall- 
 door was a large Jacobean oak chest carved with initials and an 
 old date 1678, and next to this a rickety bamboo table; there 
 were Chippendale chairs and a large brass gong, and beyond 
 these a glass case with stuffed birds. Millie, whose fingers were 
 always itching to arrange things in her own way, could see at 
 once that this might be made into a very jolly house. From the 
 window at the stair-corner came floods of sunlight, she could 
 hear cheerful voices from the kitchen ; the house was alive even 
 though it were in a mess. . . . 
 
 A tall dark woman in very stiff cap and apron appeared; 
 she "overlooked" Millie scornfully, and then said in a voice 
 aloof and distant that Miss Platt would see Miss Trenchard 
 upstairs. 
 
 Millie followed the woman and, receiving the same impression 
 of light and confusion as she went up, reached the third floor 
 and was led into a room on the right of the stairs. 
 
 Here the sun was pouring in, and for a moment it was difficult 
 to see, then through the sunlight certain things declared them- 
 selves: item an enormous, four-poster bed hung with bright 
 pink curtains, item a whole row of long becking and bowing
 
 54 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 looking-glasses, item many open drawers sprayed with gar- 
 ments of every kind, item Miss Victoria Platt rising, like 
 Venus from the sea, out of the billowy foam of scattered under- 
 clothing, resplendent in a Japanese kimono and pins falling out 
 of her hair. The tall woman said sharply, "Miss Trenchard, 
 miss," and withdrew. Miss Platt, red-faced and smiling, her 
 naked arms like crimson rolling-pins, turned towards her. 
 
 "Oh, my dear, isn't it too sweet of you to come so punctually? 
 Never did I need anybody more. I always say I'll be down 
 by nine-thirty sharp. Mrs. Brockett, I say, you can come into 
 the morning-room at nine-thirty precisely. I shall be there. 
 But I never am, you know. Never. Well, my dear, I am glad 
 to see you. Come and give me a kiss." 
 
 Millie stepped carefully over the underclothing, found herself 
 warmly encircled, two very wet and emphatic kisses implanted 
 on her cheek and then a voice hissing in her ear 
 
 "I do want us to be friends, I do indeed. We shall be, I 
 know." 
 
 There was a little pause because Millie did not know quite 
 what to say. Then Miss Platt made some masculine strides 
 towards a rather faded rocking-chair, swept from it a coat and 
 skirt and pointing to it said : 
 
 "There, sit down ! I'm sure you must be wanting a rest 
 after your journey." 
 
 "Journey !" said Millie laughing, "I haven't had a- journey ! 
 I've only come from Baker Street." 
 
 "Why, of course," said Miss Platt, "it was another girl 
 altogether who was coming from Wiltshire. I didn't like her, I 
 remember, because she had a slight moustache, which father 
 always told us implied temper." She stood back and regarded 
 Millie. 
 
 "Why, my dear, how pretty you are ! Aren't you the loveliest 
 thing ever ? And that little hat ! How well you dress !" She 
 sighed, struggling with her corsets. (The kimono was now a 
 dejected heap upon the floor.) "Dress is so easy for some 
 people. It seems to come quite naturally to them. Perhaps 
 my figure's difficult I don't know. It's certainly simpler for 
 slim people."
 
 MILLIE 55 
 
 "Oh, do let me help you," cried Millie, jumping up. She 
 came over to her and in a moment the deed was done. 
 
 "Thank you a thousand times," said Miss Platt. "How kind 
 you are. I have a maid, you know, but she's going at the end 
 of the week. I simply couldn't bear her superior manner, and 
 when she went off one Saturday afternoon from my very door in 
 a handsome motor-car that was too much for me. And she 
 wanted to practise on my piano. Servants ! You'll have to help 
 there, my dear. Change them as often as you like, but they 
 must be willing and have some kind of friendly feeling for one. 
 I can't bear to have people in the house who look as though 
 they'd poison your soup on the first opportunity. Why can't 
 we all like one another? I'm sure I'm ready enough." 
 
 Millie said : "I suppose it doesn't do to spoil them too much." 
 
 "You're right, dear, it doesn't. But as soon as I speak 
 severely to them they give notice, and I am so tired of registry 
 offices. I just go in and out of them all day. I do hope you're 
 good with servants." 
 
 "I'll do my best," said Millie, smiling bravely, although her 
 heart was already sinking at the sense of her inexperience and 
 ignorance. 
 
 "I'm sure you will," said Miss Platt, who was now arrayed 
 in bright blue. "Method is what this house wants. You look 
 methodical. The very way you put your clothes on shows me 
 that. My sister Ellen has method, but household affairs don't 
 interest her. She lives in a world of her own. Clarice, my 
 younger sister, has no method at all. She's the most artistic of 
 us. She paints and sings too delightfully. Are you artistic ?" 
 
 "No, I'm not," said Millie. "Not a little bit" 
 
 Miss Platt seemed for a moment disappointed. "I'm sorry 
 for that. I do love the Arts, although I don't do anything 
 myself. But I do encourage them wherever I can." Then she 
 brightened again. "It's much better you shouldn't be artistic. 
 You're more likely to have method." 
 
 "I have a brother who writes," said Millie. 
 
 "Now, isn't that wonderful!" Miss Platt was delighted. 
 "You must bring him along. I do think I'd rather be able to 
 write than anything. What kind of thing does he write ?" 
 
 "Well, he's rather young and of course the war kept him back,
 
 56 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 but he's in the middle of a novel and he reviews books for the 
 papers." 
 
 "Why, how splendid !" Miss Platt was ready now to depart. 
 "How clever he must be to write a novel ! All those conversa- 
 tions they put in ! I'm sure I don't know where they get it all 
 from. What a gift! Mind you bring him to see me, dear, as 
 soon as ever you can." 
 
 "I will," said Millie. 
 
 "I do love to have literary and artistic people round me. We 
 do have quite delightful musical parties here sometimes. And 
 dances too. Do you dance?" 
 
 "I love it," said Millie. 
 
 "That's splendid. Now come along. We'll go downstairs 
 and start the morning's work." 
 
 The drawing-room was just such a place as Millie had ex- 
 pected, a perfect menagerie of odds and ends of furniture and 
 the walls covered with pictures ranging from the most senti- 
 mental of Victorian to the most symbolic and puzzling of 
 Cubists. But what a nice room this could be did it contain less ! 
 Wide, high windows welcomed the sun and a small room off the 
 larger one could have the most charming privacy and cosiness. 
 But the smaller room was at the moment blocked with a huge 
 roller-top desk and a great white statue of a naked woman hold- 
 ing an apple and peering at it as though she were expecting it to 
 turn into something strange like a baby or a wild fowl at the 
 earliest possible moment. This statue curved in such a way 
 that it seemed to hang above the roller-top desk in an inquiring 
 attitude. It was the chilliest-looking statue Millie had ever 
 seen. 
 
 "Yes," said Miss Platt, seeing that Millicent's eyes were 
 directed towards this, "that is the work of a very rising young 
 sculptor, an American, Ephraim Block. You'll see him soon; 
 he often comes to luncheon here. I do love to encourage the 
 newer art, and Mr. Block is one of the very newest." 
 
 "What is the subject ?" asked Millie. 
 
 "Eve and the Apple," said Miss Platt. "It was originally 
 intended that there should be a Tree and a Serpent as well, 
 but Mr. Block very wisely saw that very few Art Galleries 
 would be large enough for a tree such as he had designed, so they
 
 MILLIE 57 
 
 are to come later when he has some open-air commissions. He 
 is a very agreeable young man ; you'll like him I'm sure. Some 
 of my friends think the statue a little bold, but after all in the 
 service of art we must forget our small pruderies, must we not ? 
 Others see a resemblance in Eve to myself, and Mr. Block 
 confessed that he had me a little in mind when he made his 
 design. Poor man, he has a wife and children, and life is a 
 great struggle for him, I'm afraid. These Americans will marry 
 so young. Now this," she went on, turning to the roller-top 
 desk, "is where I keep my papers, and one of the very first 
 things I want you to do is to get them into something like order. 
 "They are in a perfect mess at present and I never can find 
 anything when I want it. I thought you might begin on that 
 at once. I have to go out for an hour or two to see a friend off 
 to America. What she's going to America for I can't imagine. 
 She's such a nice woman with two dear little boys, but she had a 
 sudden passion to see Chicago and nothing could keep her. I 
 shall be back by twelve, and if there's anything you want just 
 ring the bell by the fireplace there and Beppo will attend to 
 
 you." 
 
 "Beppo ?" asked Millie. 
 
 "Yes, he's the page-boy. After dear father died I had a 
 butler, but he got on so badly with Mrs. Brockett that I thought 
 it wiser to have a boy. My sister, Clarice, suggested that he 
 should be called Beppo. He was a little astonished at first be- 
 cause he's really called Henry, but he's quite used to it now. 
 Well, good-bye, dear, for the moment. I can't tell you what a 
 relief it is to me to have you here. It simply makes the whole 
 difference." 
 
 Millie was left alone in her glory. 
 
 At first she wandered about the room, looking at the pictures, 
 glancing out of the windows at the bright and flashing colour 
 that flamed on the roofs and turned the chimney-pots into 
 brown and gold and purple, gazed at a huge picture over the 
 marble mantelpiece of three girls, obviously the Miss Platta 
 twenty years ago, modest and giggling under a large green tree, 
 then unrolled the desk. She gave a little gasp of despair at 
 what she saw. The papers were piled mountain-high, and the 
 breeze that come from the rolling back of the desk stirred them.
 
 58 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 like live things and blew many of them on to the floor. How 
 was she ever to do anything with these? Where was she to 
 begin? She gathered them up from the floor, and looking at 
 the first fist-full discovered bills, letters, invitation cards, theatre 
 programmes, advertisements, some of them months old, many of 
 them torn in half, and many more of them, as she quickly dis- 
 covered, requests for money, food and shelter. She felt an 
 instant's complete despair, then her innate love of order and 
 tidiness came to her rescue. She felt a real sense of pity and 
 affection for Miss Platt. Of reassurance too, because here 
 obviously was a place where she was needed, where she could 
 be of real assistance and value. She piled them all on to the 
 floor and then started to divide them into sections, invitations 
 in one heap, begging letters into another, advertisements into 
 another. 
 
 Strange enough, too, this sudden plunging into the intimacies 
 of a woman whom until an hour ago she had not known at all ! 
 Many of the letters were signed with Christian names, but 
 through all there ran an implicit and even touching belief that 
 certainly "Victoria," "dearest Viccy," "my darling little Vic," 
 "dear Miss Platt" would find it possible to "grant this humble 
 request," "to loan the money for only a few weeks when it 
 should faithfully be repaid," "to stump up a pound or two 
 this really the last time of asking." 
 
 Half-an-hour's investigation among these papers told Millie a 
 great deal about Miss Platt. Soon she was deep in her task. 
 The heavy marble clock in the big room muttered on like an 
 irritable old man who hopes to get what he wants by asking 
 for it over and over again. 
 
 She was soon caught into so complete an absorption in her 
 work that she was unaware of her surroundings, only conscious 
 that above her head Venus leered down upon her and that all 
 the strange, even pathetic furniture of the room was accom- 
 panying her on her voyage of discovery, as though it wanted 
 her to share in their own kindly, protective sense of their mis- 
 tress. The clock ticked, the fire crackled, the sun fell in broad 
 sheets of yellow across the hideous carpet of blue and crimson, 
 quenching the fire's bright flames. 
 
 Ghosts rose about her the ghosts of Victoria Platt's confused,
 
 MILLIE 59 
 
 greedy, self-seeking world. Miillie soon began to long to catch 
 some of these pirates by their throats and ring their avaricious 
 necks. How they dared! How they could ask as they did, 
 again and again and again ! Ask ! nay, demand ! She who was 
 of too proud a spirit to ask charity of any human being alive 
 unless possibly it were Henry, who, poor lamb, was singularly ill- 
 fitted to be a benefactor seemed, as she read on, to be receiving 
 a revelation of a new world undreamt of before in her young 
 philosophy. Her indignation grew, and at last to relieve her 
 feelings she had to spring up from the desk and pace the 
 room. 
 
 Suddenly, as she faced the windows to receive for a moment 
 the warmth and friendliness of the sunlight, the door opened 
 behind her and, turning, she saw a woman enter. 
 
 This was some one apparently between thirty and forty years 
 of age, dressed in rather shabby black, plain, with a pale face, 
 black hair brushed severely from a high forehead, cross, discon- 
 tented eyes and an air of scornful severity. 
 
 The two women made a strange contrast as they faced one 
 another, Millicent with her youth, beauty and happiness, the 
 other scowling, partly at the sudden sunlight, partly at the 
 surprise of finding a stranger there. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said Millie smiling. "Do you want 
 any one?" 
 
 "Do I want any one?" said the other, in a voice half-snarl, 
 half -irony ; "that's good ! In one's own house too !" 
 
 "Oh, I beg your pardon!" cried Millie again blushing. "I 
 didn't know. I've only been here an hour. I'm Miss Platt'a 
 new secretary." 
 
 "Oh, you are, are you ? Well, I'm Miss Platt's old sister, and 
 when I said it was my house I made of course the greatest pos- 
 sible mistake, because it isn't my house and never will be. You 
 can call me a guest or a companion or even a prisoner if you 
 like. Anything that it pleases you." 
 
 This was said with such extreme bitterness that Millie thought 
 that the sooner she returned to her work at the roll-top desk the 
 better. 
 
 "You're Miss Ellen Platt?" she asked. 
 
 "I am. And what's your name ?"
 
 60 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 "Millicent Trenchard." 
 
 "What on earth have you taken up this kind of work for?" 
 
 "Why shouldn't I ?" asked Millie with spirit. 
 
 "Well, you're pretty and you're young and your clothes 
 don't look exactly as though you're hard up. However if you 
 want to be imprisoned before your time there's no reason why I 
 should prevent you !" 
 
 "I want to work!" said Millie, then, laughing, she added: 
 "And there seems to be plenty for me to do here !" 
 
 Ellen Platt seemed to be suddenly arrested by her laugh. 
 She stared even more closely than she had done before. "Yes, 
 there's plenty of work/' she said. "If Victoria will let you 
 do it. If you last out a month here you'll do well." 
 
 "Why, what's the matter with it?" asked Millie. 
 
 "You can't be very observant if it isn't enough for you to cast 
 a glance around this room and tell yourself what's the matter. 
 But I'll leave you to make your own discoveries. Six years ago 
 we hadn't a penny to bless ourselves with and thought ourselves 
 ill-used. Now we have more money than we know what to do 
 with or at least Victoria has and we're worse off than we 
 were before." 
 
 She said those words "Or at least Victoria has" with such con- 
 centrated anger and bitterness that Millie turned her head 
 away. 
 
 "Yes I expect having a lot of money suddenly is a trouble," 
 she said. "I must be getting on with my work." 
 
 She moved into the little room; Ellen Platt followed her as 
 though determined to fire her last shot at close quarters. 
 
 "Victoria's had five secretaries in the last month," she said. 
 "And they've none of them been able to stand it a week, and 
 they were older women than you," then she went out, banging the 
 door behind her. 
 
 "What an unpleasant woman," thought Millie, then buried 
 herself again in her work. 
 
 Her other interruption came half an hour later. The door 
 opened and there came in a man of medium height, bald and 
 with a bushy moustache so striking that it seemed as though 
 he should have either more hair on his head or less over his 
 mouth. He had twinkling eyes and was dressed in grey. He
 
 MILLIE 61 
 
 came across the room without seeing Millie, then started with 
 surprise. 
 
 "Good heavens I" he said. "A girl !" 
 
 "I'm Miss Platt's new secretary," she said. 
 
 "And I'm Miss Platt's family physician," he said through 
 his moustache. "My name's Brooker." He added smiling, 
 "You seem in a bit of a mess there." 
 
 She must have looked in a mess, the papers lying in tangled 
 heaps on every side of her; to herself she seemed at last to be 
 evoking order. 
 
 "I'm not in so much of a mess as I was an hour ago," she 
 said. 
 
 "No, I daresay." He nodded his head. "You look more 
 efficient than the last secretary who cried so often that all Miss 
 Platt's correspondence looked as though it had been out in 
 the rain." 
 
 "What did she cry about?" asked Millie. 
 
 "Homesickness and indigestion and general confusion," he 
 answered. "You don't look as though you'll cry." 
 
 "I'm much more likely to smash Eve," said Millie. "Don't 
 you think I might ask Miss Platt to have her moved back a 
 little this afternoon ? It's so awful feeling that she's watching 
 everything you do." 
 
 "There's nowhere very much to have her moved back to," 
 said the Doctor. "She's back as far as she will go now. You're 
 very young," he added quite irrelevantly. 
 
 "I'm not," said Millie. "I'm twenty-five." 
 
 "You don't look that. I don't want to be inquisitive, but 
 did you know anything about these people before you came 
 here?" 
 
 "No," said Millie. "No more than one knows from a first 
 impression. Why? You look concerned about me. Have I 
 made a mistake?" 
 
 The doctor laughed. "Not if you have a sense of humour 
 and plenty of determination. The last four ladies lacked both 
 those qualities. Mind you, I'm devoted to the family. Their 
 father, poor old Joe, was one of my greatest friends." 
 
 "Why do you pity him?" asked Millie quickly. 
 
 "Because he was one of those most unfortunate of human
 
 62 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 beings a man who had one great ambition in life, worked for 
 it all his days, realized it before he died and found it dust in 
 the mouth. The one thing he wanted from life was money. 
 He was a poor man all his days until the War then he made a 
 corner in rum and made so much money he didn't know what 
 to do with himself. The confusion and excitement of it all 
 was too much for him and he died of apoplexy. 
 
 "Only the day before he died he said to me: 'Tom, I've 
 put my money on the wrong horse. Pve been a fool all my 
 life.'" 
 
 "And he left his money to his daughters ?" asked Millie. 
 
 "To Victoria, always his favourite. And he left it to her 
 to do just as she liked with and to behave as she pleased to her 
 sisters." 
 
 He had never cared about Clarice and Ellen. He was dis- 
 appointed because they weren't boys. 
 
 "So Victoria's King of the Castle and knows she is, too, for 
 all that she's a good, kind-hearted woman. Are you interested 
 in human beings, Miss ?" 
 
 "Trenchard," said Millie. "I am." 
 
 "Well if you really are you've come to the right place. You 
 won't find anything more interesting in the whole of London. 
 Here you have right in front of your nose that curious specimen 
 of the human family, the New Eich, and you have it in its most 
 touching and moving aspect frightened, baffled, confused, be- 
 wildered and plundered. 
 
 "Plundered! My God! you'll have plenty of opportunity of 
 discovering the Plunderers in the next few weeks if you stay. 
 There are some prime specimens here. If you're a good girl 
 and you don't look a bad one you'll have a chance of saving 
 Victoria. Another year like the one she's just gone through 
 and I think she'll be in an asylum !" 
 
 "Oh, poor thing!" cried Millie. "Indeed I'm going to .do 
 my very best." 
 
 "Mind you," he went on, "she's foolish there never was a 
 more foolish woman. And she can be a tyrant too. Clarice and 
 Ellen have a hard time of it. But they take her the wrong 
 way. They resent it that she should hold the purse and they 
 show her that they resent it. You can do anything you like
 
 MILLIE 63 
 
 with her if you make her fond of you. There never was a 
 warmer-hearted woman." 
 
 He went over to Millie's desk and stood close to her. "I'm 
 telling you all this, Miss Trenchard," he said, "because I like 
 the look of you. I believe you're just what's needed in this 
 house. You've got all the enchantment of youth and health 
 and beauty if you'll forgive my saying so. The Enchanted Age 
 doesn't last very long, but those who are in it can do so much 
 for those who are outside, and generally they are so taken up 
 with their own excitement that they've no time to think of 
 those others. You'll never regret it all your life if you do 
 something for this household before you leave it." 
 
 Millie was deeply touched. "Of course I will," she said, "if 
 I can. And you really think I can ? I'm terribly ignorant and 
 inexperienced." 
 
 "You're not so inexperienced as they are." He held out his 
 hand. "Come to me if you're disheartened or bewildered. 
 There'll be times when you will be. I've known these women, 
 since they were babies so I can help you." 
 
 They shook hands on it.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 HENRY'S FIBST DAY 
 
 MEANWHILE Henry's plunge into a cold and hostile world 
 was of quite another kind. 
 
 One of the deep differences between brother and sister was 
 that while Millie was realistic Henry was romantic. He could 
 not help but see things in a coloured light, and now when he 
 started out for his first morning with his Baronet London was 
 all lit up like a birthday cake. He had fallen during the last 
 year under the spell of the very newest of the Vers Librists, and 
 it had become a passion with him to find fantastic images for 
 everything that he saw. Moreover, the ease of it all fascinated 
 him. He was, God knows, no poet, but quite simply, without 
 any trouble at all, lines came tumbling into his head : 
 
 The chimneys, like crimson cockatoos, 
 Fling their grey feathers 
 
 Wildly. 
 or 
 
 The washing 
 
 Billowing 
 Frozen egg-shells 
 Crimson pantaloons 
 Skyline 
 Flutter. 
 or 
 
 The omnibuses herd together 
 In the dirty autumn weather 
 Elephants in jungle town 
 Monkey-nuts come pattering down. 
 
 and so on and so on. . . . 
 
 He got deep pleasure from these inspirations; he had sent 
 three to an annual anthology Hoops, and one of them, "Rail- 
 way-Lines Bucket-shop," was to appear in the 1920 volume. 
 
 64
 
 HENRY'S FIRST DAY 65 
 
 But the trouble with Henry was that cheek by jowl with this 
 modern up-to-date impulse ran a streak of real old-fashioned, 
 entirely out-of-date Romance. It was true, as Millie had in- 
 formed Miss Platt, that he had written ten chapters of a story, 
 The House in the Lonely Wood. 
 
 How desperately was he ashamed of his impulse to write 
 this romance and yet how at the same time he loved doing it! 
 Was ever young literary genius in a more shameful plight! 
 A true case of double personality! With the day he pursued 
 the path of all the young 1920 Realists, believing that nothing 
 matters but "the Truth, the calm, cold, unaffected Truth," 
 thrilling to the voices of the Three Graces, loving the com- 
 pany of the somewhat youthful editor of Hoops, reading every 
 word that fell from the pen of the younger realistic critics. 
 
 And then at night out came the other personality and Henry, 
 hair on end, the penny bottle of ink in front of him, pursued, 
 alas happily and with the divine shining behind his eyelids, 
 the simple path of unadulterated, unashamed Romance! 
 
 What would the Three Graces say, how would the editor of 
 Hoops regard him, did they know what he did night after night 
 in the secrecy of his own chamber, or rather of Mr. King's 
 chamber? Perhaps they would not greatly care they did not 
 in any case consider him as of any very real importance. 
 Nevertheless he could not but feel that he was treating them 
 to double-dealing. 
 
 And then his trouble was suddenly healed by the amazing, 
 overwhelming adventure of Piccadilly Circus. As he had dis- 
 covered at the Hunters' party, nothing now mattered but the 
 outcome of that adventure. He worked at his Romance with 
 redoubled vigour; it did not seem to him any longer a shame- 
 ful affair, simply because he had now in his own experience a 
 Romance greater and wilder than any fancy could give him. 
 Also images and similes occurred to him more swiftly than 
 ever, and they were no longer modern, no longer had any con- 
 nection with Hoops or the new critics, but were simply the 
 attempts that his own soul was making to clothe Her and every- 
 thing about Her, even Her horrible mother, with all the beauty 
 and colour that his genius could provide. (Henry did not
 
 really, at this time, doubt that he had genius the doubting 
 tiue was later.) 
 
 It will be seen then that he started for Sir Charles Dun- 
 combe's house in a very romantic spirit. 
 
 The address was No. 13 Hill Street, Berkeley Square, so 
 that Henry had a very little way to go from his Panton Street 
 room. Hill Street is a bright, cheerful place enough with a 
 sense of dignity and age about it and a consciousness that it 
 knows only the very best people. Even the pillar-boxes and the 
 lamp-posts call for decorum and are accustomed, you can see, 
 to butlers, footmen and very superior ladies'-maids. But it 
 cannot be denied that many of the Hill Street houses are dark 
 inside and No. 13 is no exception to that rule. Unlike most 
 of the Hill Street houses which all often change masters, No. 
 13 had been in the possession of the Buncombe family for a 
 great many years, ever since the days of Queen Anne, in fact, 
 the days of the famous Richard Buncombe who, being both 
 the most desperate gambler and the astutest brain for a bargain 
 in all London, made and lost fortunes with the greatest fre- 
 quency. 
 
 Henry on this first morning knew nothing about the family 
 history of the Buncombes, but if he had known he might have 
 readily believed that so far as the hall and the butler went no 
 change whatever had been made since those elegant polished 
 Queen Anne days. The hall was so dark and the butler so 
 old that Henry dared neither to move, lest he should fall over 
 something, nor to speak lest it should seem irreverent. He 
 stood, therefore, rooted to the stone floor and muttered some- 
 thing so inaudibly that the old man courteously waiting could 
 not hear at all. 
 
 "Henry Trenchard," he said at last, looking wildly about 
 him. How the cold seemed to strike up through the stone 
 flags into his very marrow ! 
 
 "Quite so, sir/' said the old man. "Sir Charles is expecting 
 you." 
 
 Up an enormous stone staircase they went, Henry's boota 
 making a great clatter, his teeth against his will chattering. 
 Portraits looked down upon him, but so dark it was that you 
 could only catch a glimmer of their old gold frames.
 
 HENRY'S FIRST DAY 67 
 
 To Henry, modern though he might endeavour to he, there 
 would recur persistently that picture the most romantic pic- 
 ture perhaps in all his childish picture-gallery of Alan Fair- 
 ford, sick and ill, dragged hy Nanty Ewart through the dying 
 avenues of Fairladies, having at long last that interview with 
 the imperious Father Bonaventure in the long gallery of the 
 crumbling house the interview, the secret letter, the mys- 
 terious lady "whose step was that of a queen." "Whose neck 
 and bosom were admirably formed, and of a dazzling white- 
 ness" the words still echoed in Henry's heart calling from 
 that far day when a tiny boy in his attic at Garth he read by 
 the light of a dipping candle the history of Redgauntlet from 
 a yellowing closely-printed page. 
 
 Here, in the very heart of London was Fairladies once again 
 and who could tell? . . . Might not the spring in the wall be 
 touched, a bookcase step aside and a lady, "her neck and bosom 
 of a startling whiteness/' appear? For shame! He had now 
 his own lady. The time had gone by for dreams. He came to 
 reality with a start, finding himself in a long dusky library 
 so thickly embedded with old books that the air was scented 
 with the crushed aroma of old leather bindings. A long oak 
 table confronted him and behind the table, busily engaged 
 with writing, was his new master. 
 
 The old man muttered something and was gone. Sir 
 Charles did not look up and Henry, his heart beating fast, was 
 able to study his surroundings. The library was all that the 
 most romantic soul could have wished it. The ceiling was high 
 and stamped with a gold pattern. A gallery about seven feet 
 from the ground ran round the room, and a little stairway 
 climbed up to this; except for their high diamond-paned win- 
 dows on one side of the room the bookcases completely cov- 
 ered the walls; thousands upon thousands of old books glim- 
 mered behind their gold tooling, the gold running like a thin 
 mist from wall to wall. 
 
 Above the wide s,tone fireplace there was a bust of a sharp- 
 nosed gentleman in whig and stock, very supercilious and a 
 little dusty. 
 
 With all this Henry also took surreptitious peeps at Sir 
 Charles, and what he saw did not greatly reassure him. He
 
 68 THE YOUTSTG ENCHANTED 
 
 was a very thin man, dressed in deep black and a high white 
 collar that would in other days have been called Gladstonian, 
 bald, tight-lipped and with the same peaked bird-like nose as the 
 gentleman above the fireplace. He gave an impression of per- 
 fect cleanness, neatness and order. Everything on the table, 
 letter-weight, reference-books, paper knife, silver ink-bottle, pens 
 and sealing-wax, was arranged so definitely that these things 
 might have been stuck on to the table with glue. Sir Charles's 
 hands were long, thin and bird-shaped like his nose. Henry, 
 as he snatched glimpses of this awe-inspiring figure, was acutely 
 conscious of his own deficiencies; he felt tumbled, rumpled, 
 end crumpled. Whereas, only a quarter of an hour go walking 
 down Hill Street, he had felt debonair, smart and fashionable 
 (far of course from what he really was), so unhappily impres- 
 sionable was he. 
 
 Suddenly the hand was raised, the pen laid carefully down, 
 the nose shot out across the table. 
 
 "You are Mr. Trenchard?" asked a voice that made Henry 
 feel as though he were a stiff sheet of paper being slowly cut 
 by a very sharp knife. 
 
 "Yes, sir," he said. 
 
 "Very well. . . . We have only corresponded hitherto. Mr. 
 Mark is your cousin, I think ?" 
 
 "My brother-in-law, sir." 
 
 "Quite. A very able fellow. He should go far." 
 
 Henry had never cared for Philip who, in his own private 
 opinion, should have never gone any distance at all, but on 
 the present occasion he could only offer up a very ineffective 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Very well. You have never been anybody's secretary 
 before?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "And you understand that I am giving you a month's trial 
 entirely on your brother-in-law's recommendation?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "And what" here the nose shot out and forward in most 
 alarming fashion "do you understand a secretary's duties to 
 be?" 
 
 Henry smiled rather to give himself confidence than for any
 
 HENRY'S FIRST DAY 69 
 
 other very definite reason. "Well, sir, I should say that you 
 would want to me to write letters to your dictation and keep 
 your papers in order and, perhaps, to interview people whom 
 you don't wish to see yourself and and, possibly to entrust 
 me with missions of importance." 
 
 "Hum. . . . Quite. ... I understand that you can type- 
 write and that you know shorthand ?" 
 
 "Well, sir" here Henry smiled again "I think I had better 
 be frank with you from the beginning. I don't typewrite very 
 well. I told Philip not to lay much emphasis on that. And 
 my shorthand is pretty quick, but I can't generally read it 
 afterwards." 
 
 "Indeed ! And would you mind telling me why, with these 
 deficiencies, you fancied that you would make me a good 
 secretary ?" 
 
 Henry's heart sank. He saw himself within the next five 
 minutes politely ushered down the stone staircase, through the 
 front door and so out into Hill Street. 
 
 "I don't think," he said, "that I will make you a very good 
 secretary, not in the accepted sense. I know that I shall make 
 mistakes and be clumsy and forgetful, but I will do my very 
 best and you can trust me, and I am really not such a fool as 
 I often look." 
 
 These were the very last words that Henry had intended to 
 say. It was as though some one else had spoken them for him. 
 Now he had ruined his chances. There was nothing for it but 
 to accept his dismissal and go. 
 
 However, Sir Charles seemed to take it all as the most natural 
 thing in the world. 
 
 "Quite," he said. "Your brother-in-law tells me that you are 
 an author." 
 
 "I'm not exactly one yet," said Henry. "I hope to be one 
 soon, but of course the war threw me back." 
 
 "And what kind of an author do you intend to be?" 
 
 "I mean to be a novelist," said Henry, feeling quite sure 
 that this was the very last thing that Sir Charles would ever 
 consider any one ought to be. 
 
 '^Exactly. And you will I suppose be doing your own work 
 when you ought to be doing mine?"
 
 70 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 "No, I won't/' said Henry eagerly. "I can't pretend that I 
 won't sometimes be thinking of it. It's very hard to keep it 
 out of one's head sometimes. But I'll do my best not to." 
 
 "Quite. . . . Won't you sit down?" Henry sat down on a 
 stiff-backed chair. 
 
 "If you will kindly listen I will explain to you what I shall 
 wish you to do for me. As you have truly suggested I shall need 
 some help with my letters; some typing also will be necessary. 
 But the main work I have in hand for you is another matter. 
 My grandfather, Ronald Buncombe, was a Writer to the Signet 
 in Edinburgh during the first thirty years of the nineteenth 
 century. He was a great letter-writer, and knew all the most 
 interesting personalities of his time. You, doubtless, like all 
 the new generation, despise your parents and laugh at your 
 grandparents." Sir Charles paused here as though he expected 
 an answer to a question. 
 
 "Oh no," said Henry hurriedly. "My grandfather's dead 
 he died a few years ago but he was a very fine old man in- 
 deed. We all thought a great deal of him." 
 
 "I'm glad to hear it. That will make you perhaps the more 
 sympathetic to this work that I have for you. There are 
 several black boxes in the cupboard over there filled with let- 
 ters. Walter Scott was an intimate friend of his of course, 
 you despise Walter Scott?" 
 
 "Oh, no," said Henry fervently, "I don't, I assure you." 
 
 "Hum. Quite. When one of you young men writes some- 
 thing better than he did I'll begin to read you. Not before." 
 
 "No," said Henry, who nevertheless longed to ask Sir 
 Sir Charles how he knew that the young men of to-day did not 
 write better seeing that he never read them. 
 
 "In those boxes there are letters from Byron and Words- 
 worth and Crabbe and Hogg and many other great men of the 
 time. There are also many letters of no importance. I in- 
 tend to edit my grandfather's letters and I wish you to prepare 
 them for me." 
 
 "Yes," said Henry. 
 
 "I wish you to be here punctually at nine every morning. 
 I may say that I consider punctuality of great importance. You 
 will help me with my own correspondence until ten-thirty;
 
 HENRY'S FIRST DAY 71 
 
 from ten-thirty until one you will be engaged on my grand- 
 father's letters. My sister will be very glad that you should 
 have luncheon with us whenever you care to. I shall not gen- 
 erally require you in the afternoon, but sometimes I shall ex- 
 pect you to remain here all day. I shall wish you always to 
 be free to do so when I need you." 
 
 ''Yes, sir," said Henry. 
 
 "Sometimes I shall be at Buncombe Hall in Wiltshire and 
 shall want you to stay with me there at certain periods. I 
 hope that you will not ask more questions than are absolutely 
 necessary as I dislike being disturbed. You are of course at 
 liberty to use any books in this library that you please, but 
 I hope that you will always put them back in their right places. 
 I dislike very much seeing books bent back or laid face down- 
 wards." 
 
 "Yes," said Henry. "So do I." 
 
 "Quite. . . . And now, are there any questions that you will 
 like to ask?" 
 
 "No," said Henry. "If there are any questions that I want 
 to ask would you prefer that I asked them when I thought of 
 them or kept them until the end of the morning and asked 
 them all together?" 
 
 "That had better depend on your own judgment." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 "That table over there," said Sir Charles, pointing to one 
 near the window, "is a good one for you to work at. I should 
 suggest that you begin this morning with the box labelled 1816- 
 1820. That is the cupboard to your right. It is not locked." 
 
 The first movement across the floor to the cupboard was 
 an agonizing one. Henry felt as though everything in the room 
 were listening to him, as though the gentleman with the nose on 
 the mantelpiece was saying to him: "You'll never do here. 
 Look at the noise your boots make. Of course you won't do." 
 
 However he got safely across, opened the cupboard which 
 creaked viciously, found the black boxes and the one that he 
 needed. It was very heavy, but he brought it to the table 
 without much noise. Down he sat, carefully opened it and 
 looked inside. Pile upon pile of old yellow letters lay there, 
 packet after packet of them tied with faded red tape. Some-
 
 72 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 thing within him thrilled to their age, to their pathos, to 
 their humility, to the sense that they carried up to him of the 
 swift passing of time, the touching childishness of human hopes, 
 despair and ambitions. He felt suddenly like an ant crawling 
 laboriously over a gleaming and slippery globe of incredible 
 vastness. The letters seemed to rebuke him as though he had 
 been boasting of his pride and youth and his confidence in his 
 own security. He took out the first bundle, reverently undid 
 the tape and began to read. . . . 
 
 Soon he was absorbed even as his sister Millicent, at that same 
 moment in the Cromwell Road, was absorbed in a very different 
 collection of letters, on this her second Platt morning. The 
 library with its thousands of books enfolded Henry as though 
 now it approved of him and might love him did he stay rever- 
 ently in its midst caring for the old things and the old people 
 the old things that pass, the old people who seem to die but do 
 not. At first every letter thrilled him. The merest note: 
 
 15 CASTLE ST., EDINBURGH, 
 
 June 4, 1816. 
 
 MY DEAR RONALD What about coming in to see us? All at 
 Hartley well and easy Mamma has been in Edinburgh after a 
 cook no joking matter and to see Benjie who was but indif- 
 ferent, but has recovered. ... I will write a long letter soon, but 
 my back and eyes ache with these three pages. . . . 
 
 Then a note about a dinner-party, then about a parcel of books, 
 then a letter from Italy full of the glories of Florence; then 
 (how Henry shivered with pleasure as he saw it!) the hand 
 and sign of the Magician himself! 
 
 DEAR Sm RONALD BUNCOMBE I am coming to town I trust 
 within the fortnight, but my trees a-re holding me here for the 
 moment. I have been saddened lately by the death of my poor 
 brother, Major John Scott, who was called home after a long 
 illness. All here wish to be remembered to you. Most truly yours, 
 
 WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 A terrible temptation came to Henry so swift that it seemed 
 to be suggested by some one sitting beside him to slip the 
 letter into his pocket. This was the first time in all his days
 
 HENRY'S FIRST DAY 73 
 
 that he had had such a letter in his hand, because, although his 
 father had heen for many years a writer of books on this very 
 period, his material had been second-hand, even third-hand 
 material. Henry felt a slight contempt for his father as he 
 sat there. 
 
 Then, as the minutes swung past, he was aware that he 
 should be doing something more than merely looking at the 
 old letters and complimenting them on their age and pretty 
 pathos. He should be arranging them. Yes, arranging them, 
 but how? He began helplessly to pick them up, look at them 
 and lay them on the table again. Many of them had no datea 
 at all, many were signed only with Christian names, some 
 were not signed at all. And how was he to decide on the im- 
 portant ones? How did he know that he would not pass, 
 through ignorance and inexperience, some signature of world- 
 significance? The letters began to look at him with less ap- 
 proval, even with a certain cynical malevolence. They all 
 looked the same with their faded yellow paper and their con- 
 fusing hand-writing. He had many of them on the table, un- 
 bound from their red tape, lying loosely about him and yet the 
 box seemed as full as ever. And there were many more boxes! 
 . . . Suddenly, from the very bowels of the house, a gong 
 sounded. 
 
 <r Tou can ;vash your hands in that little room to the right," 
 said Sir Charles, whose personality suddenly returned as though 
 Henry had pressed a button. "Luncheon will be waiting for 
 us." 
 
 And this was the conclusion of Henry's first appearance as 
 a private secretary.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE THREE FRIENDS 
 
 UPON" the afternoon of that same day at five of the clock 
 they were gathered together in Mr. King's friendly 
 attic Henry, Millicent and Westcott. Because there was so 
 little room Henry and Millie sat on the bed, Peter Westcott 
 having the honour of the cane-bottomed chair, which looked 
 small enough under his large square body. 
 
 The attic window was open and the spring afternoon sun 
 came in, bringing with it, so Henry romantically fancied, a 
 whiff from the flower-baskets in Piccadilly and the bursting 
 buds of the St. James's Church trees also petrol from the 
 garage next door and, as Peter asserted, patchouli and orange- 
 peel from the Comedy Theatre. 
 
 At first, as is often the case with tea-parties, there was a little 
 stiffness. It was absurd that on this occasion it should be so; 
 nevertheless the honest fact was that Millie did not care very 
 greatly for Peter and that Henry knew this. She did not care 
 for him, Henry contended, because she did not know him, and 
 this might be because in all their lives they had only met once 
 or twice, Millie generally making some excuse when she knew 
 that Peter would be present. 
 
 - Was this jealousy? Indignantly she would have denied it. 
 Rather she would have said that it was because she did not 
 think that he made a very good friend for her dear Henry. 
 He was, in her eyes, a rather battered, grumpy, sulky, middle- 
 aged man who was here married and there not married at all, 
 distinctly a failure, immoral probably and certainly a cynic. 
 None of these things would she mind for herself of course, but 
 Henry was so much younger than she, so much more innocent, 
 she happily fancied, about the wicked ways of the world. 
 Westcott would spoil him, take the bloom off him, make him old 
 
 74
 
 THE THREE FRIENDS 75 
 
 before his time that is what she liked to tell him. And 
 perhaps if they had not met on this special afternoon that little 
 barrier would never have been leaped, but to-day they had so 
 much to tell and to hear that restraint was soon impossible, 
 and Henry himself had so romantic a glow in his eyes, and his 
 very hair, that it male at once the whole meeting exceptional. 
 This glow was indeed the very first thing that Millie noticed. 
 
 "Why, Henry/' she said as soon as she sat down on the bed, 
 "what has happened to you?" 
 
 He was swinging on the bed, hugging his knees. 
 
 "There's nothing the matter," he said. "I'm awfully happy, 
 that's all." 
 
 "Happy because of the Baronet?" 
 
 "No, not so much the Baronet although he's all right, and 
 it's awfully interesting if I can only do the work. No, it's 
 something else. I'll tell you all about it when we've had tea. 
 I say, Millie, how stunning you look in that orange jumper. 
 You ought always to wear orange. Oughn't she, Peter?" 
 
 "Yes," said Peter, his eyes fixed gravely upon her. 
 
 Millie flushed a little. She didn't want Westcotf s approval. 
 A nuisance that he was here at all ! It would be so much easier 
 to discuss everything with Henry were he not here. 
 
 Mr. King arrived, very solemn, very superior, very dead. 
 
 He put down the tray upon the rather rickety little table. 
 They all watched him in silence. When he had gone Henry 
 chuckled. 
 
 "He thinks I'm awful," Henry said. "Too awful for any- 
 thing. I don't suppose he's ever despised any one before as he 
 despises me, and it makes him happy. He loves to have some 
 one who's awful. And now about Miss Platt every bit about 
 Miss Platt from her top to her toe!" 
 
 He went to the tea-table and began to pour out the tea, wish- 
 ing that Millie and Peter would like one another better and not 
 look so cross. 
 
 Millie began. She had come that afternoon burning to tell 
 everything about the Platt household, and then when she saw 
 Westcott there she was closed like an oyster. However, for 
 Henry's sake she must do something, so she began because in 
 her own way she was as truly creative as Henry was in his. She
 
 fr6 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 found that she was enjoying herself and it grew under her hand, 
 the Platt house, the Platt rooms, the Platt family, Victoria and 
 Ellen and Clarice, and the little doctor and Beppo and the 
 housekeeper and the statue of Eve and all the letters. . . . 
 
 They hegan to laugh; she was laughing so that she could 
 not speak and Henry was laughing so that the two brazen and 
 unsympathetic muffins which Mr. King had provided fell on to 
 the carpet, and then Peter laughed and laughed more than that, 
 and more again, and any ice that there had ever been was 
 cracked, riven, utterly smashed ! 
 
 They all fell into the Pond together and found it so warm 
 and comfortable that they decided to stay there for the rest 
 of the afternoon. 
 
 "Of course/' said Millie, "it entirely remains to be seen 
 whether I'm up to the job. I'm not even sure that I can man- 
 age the correspondence, I'm almost certain that I can't manage 
 the servants. The housekeeper hates me already and then 
 there are the sisters." 
 
 "Ellen and Clarice." 
 
 Millie nodded her head. "They are queer. But then the 
 situation's queer. Victoria's got all the money and likes the 
 power. They have to do what she says or leave the house and 
 start all alone in a cold and unsympathetic world. They 
 couldn't do that, they couldn't earn their livings for five 
 minutes. Clarice thinks she can sing and act. You should hear 
 her! Ellen does little but sulk. Victoria gives them fine big 
 allowances, but she likes to feel they are her slaves. They'd 
 give anything for their freedom, marry anybody anywhere 
 but they won't plunge! How can they? They'd starve in a 
 week." 
 
 "And would their sister let them?" asked Peter. 
 
 "No, I don't think she would," said Millie. "But she'd have 
 them back and they'd be no better off than before. She's a kind- 
 hearted creature, but just loves the power her money gives her 
 and hasn't the least idea what to do with it! She's as be- 
 wildered as though, after being in a dark room all her life, she 
 were suddenly flung into the dancing-hall in Hampstead. . . . 
 Oh, ifs a queer time!" 
 
 Millie sprang up from the bed.
 
 THE THEEE FEIENDS 77 
 
 ''Every one's bewildered, the ones that have money and didn't 
 have it, the ones that haven't money and used to have it, the 
 ones with ideas and the ones without, the ones with standards 
 and the ones without, the cliche" ones and the old-fashioned 
 ones, the ones that want fun and the ones that want to pray, 
 the ugly ones and the pretty ones, the bold ones and the fright- 
 ened ones. . . . Everything's breaking up and everything's 
 turning into new shapes and new colours. And I love it! I 
 love it ! I love it ! I oughtn't to, if s wrong to, I can't help it ! 
 .... It's enchanting !" 
 
 As she stood there, the sun streaming in upon her from tho 
 little window and illuminating her gay colours and her youth 
 and health and beauty she seemed to Peter Westcott a sudden, 
 flame and fire burning there, in that little attic to show to the 
 world that youth never dies, that life is eternal, that hope and 
 love and beauty are stronger than governments and wars and 
 the changing of forms and boundaries. It was an unforget- 
 able moment to him, and even though it emphasized all the 
 more his own loneliness it seemed to whisper to him that that 
 loneliness would not be for ever. 
 
 "Hold on!" said Henry. "Look out, Millie! The table's 
 very shaky and if the plates are broken King will make me pay 
 at least twice what they're worth. You know it's a funny 
 thing, but I'm seeing just the other side of the picture. Your 
 people have just got all their money, my people have just lost all 
 theirs. Before the war, so far as I can make out, Buncombe was 
 quite well off. Most of it came from land, and that's gone down 
 and the Income Tax has come up, and there's hardly anything 
 left. They think they'll have to sell Buncombe Hall which has 
 been in the family for centuries, and that will pretty well break 
 their hearts I fancy." 
 
 "They? Who's they?" asked MiUie. 
 
 "There's a sister," said Henry. "Lady Bell-Hall Margaret, 
 She's the funniest little woman you ever saw. She's a widow. 
 Her husband died in the war of general shock I should fancy 
 air-raids and money and impertinence from the lower classes. 
 The widow nearly died from the same thing. She always wears 
 black and a bonnet, and jumps if any one makes the least 
 sound. At the same time she's as proud as Lucifer and good
 
 .78 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 too. She's just bewildered. She can't understand things at 
 all. The word written on her heart when she comes to die 
 will be Bolshevist. She talks all the time and it's from her I 1 
 know all this! 
 
 "And Buncombe himself? What's he like?" asked Millie. 
 
 "Oh, he's queer! I like him but I can't make out what he 
 thinks. He never shows any sign. He will, I suppose, before 
 long. I shall make so many muddles and mistakes that I 
 shall just be shown the door at the end of the month. How- 
 ever, he can't say I didn't warn him. I told him from the 
 beginning just what I was. I know I'm going to have an 
 awful time with those letters. They all look so exactly alike, 
 and many of them haven't got any dates at all, and then I go 
 off dreaming. It's almost impossible not to in that library. 
 It's full of ghosts, and the letters are full of ghosts as well. 
 And I'm sorry for those two. It must be awful, everything 
 that you believe in going, the only world you've ever known 
 coming to an end before your eyes, every one denying all the 
 things you've believed in and laughing at them. He's brave, 
 old Buncombe. He'll go down fighting." 
 
 "And what's the other thing?" said Millie, sitting down on 
 the bed again, "that you were going to tell me ?" 
 
 Henry told his adventure. He did not look at Millie as he 
 told it; he did not want to see whether she approved or dis- 
 approved; he was afraid that she would laugh. She laughed 
 at so many things, and most of all he was afraid lest she should 
 say something about the girl. If she did say anything he would 
 have to stand it. 
 
 After all Millie had not seen her. ... So he talked, staring 
 at the little pink clouds that were now forming beyond the 
 window just over the "Comedy" roof they were like lumps of 
 coral against the sky three, four, five . . . then they merged 
 into two billowing pillows of colour, slowly fading into a deep 
 crimson, then breaking into long strips of orange lazily form- 
 ing against a blue that grew paler and paler and at last, as 
 he ended, was white like water under glass. 
 
 He stopped. 
 
 "How long ago was all this?" Millie asked at last. 
 
 "Two days back."
 
 THE THREE FRIENDS 7ft 
 
 "Have you seen her since?" 
 
 "No. I've been round that street several times. I know it 
 by heart. I haven't dared go up not so soon again." 
 
 "I wish Fd seen her," Millie said slowly. Then she added, 
 "Anyway you must go on with it, Henry. You've promised 
 to help her and so of course you must. If she's taking you in it 
 will do you good to be taken in. It will teach you not to be 
 such an ass another time. If she's not taking you in " 
 
 "Of course she's not taking me in," Henry answered hotly. 
 "I know that you and Peter think me a baby and that I 
 haven't any idea of things. You've always thought that, Millie, 
 but I'm sure I don't know what you base it on. I'm hardly 
 ever wrong. Wasn't I right about Philip? Isn't he just the 
 prig I always thought him, and didn't he take Katherine away 
 from us and break us all up just as I said he would? 
 
 "And as to girls you both look so learned as though you 
 knew such a lot, but when have I ever been foolish about girls ? 
 I've never cared the least bit about them until now. I've been 
 waiting, I think, until she came along. Because I'm not always 
 tidy and break things, you both think I'm an ass. But I'm not 
 an ass, as I'll show you." 
 
 Millie went across to him and kissed him on the forehead. 
 
 "Of course I don't think you an ass. But you are easily 
 taken in by people you always believe what they say." 
 
 Henry nodded his head. "Perhaps I don't so much as I 
 mean to. But it's the best thing to try to. You get far more 
 that way." 
 
 The three sat there in silence. At last Millicent said : 
 
 "Isn't it queer? Here's the world on the very edge of every 
 sort of adventure, and here are we on the very edge too ? I feel 
 in my bones that we shall go through great things this year 
 all of us. Unpleasant and pleasant all sorts. I don't be- 
 lieve that there's ever been in all history such a time for ad- 
 venture as now." 
 
 Henry jumped up from behind the table. 
 
 "That's true!" he cried. "And whatever happens we three 
 will stick together. Nothing shall separate us nothing; and 
 nobody. You and I and Peter. We'll never let anybody come
 
 80 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 between us. We'll be the three best friends the world has ever 
 seen!" 
 
 He caught Millie's hand. She looked np at him, smiling. 
 He came across and caught Peter's also. Suddenly Millicent 
 put out hers and took Peter's free one. 
 
 "You're a sentimental donkey, Henry," she said. "But 
 there's something in what you say." 
 
 Peter flushed. "I'm older than both of you," he said, "and 
 I'm dull and slow but I'll do what I can." 
 
 There was a knock on the door and they sprang apart. It 
 was Mr. King to take away the tea.
 
 BOOK II 
 HIGH SUMMER
 
 CHAPTEK I 
 
 SECOND PHASE OF THE ADVENTURE 
 
 NOW might young Henry be considered by any observer of 
 average intelligence to be fairly launched into the world 
 he is in love, he is confidential secretary to a gentleman of 
 importance, he has written ten chapters of a romantic novel and 
 he is living in chambers all on his own. It has been asserted 
 again and again that the Great War of 1914 turned many 
 thousands of boys into old men long before their time. The 
 exact contrary may also be proved to be true namely that the 
 War caught many boys in their teens, held them in a sort of 
 vise for five years, keeping them from life as it is usually lived, 
 teaching them nothing but war and then suddenly flinging 
 them out into a Peace about which they were as ignorant as 
 blind puppies. Boys of eighteen chronologically supposed to be 
 twenty-four and superficially disguised as men of forty and 
 disillusioned cynical men at that, those were to be found in 
 their thousands in that curious tangled year of 1920. Henry 
 thought he was a man ; he was much less a man than he would 
 have been had no war broken out at all. 
 
 On the afternoon following the tea party just now described 
 he left Hill Street about four o'clock, his head up and his chest 
 out, a very fine figure indeed had it not been that, unknown 
 to himself, his tie had stepped up to the top of his collar at 
 the back of his neck and there was a small smudge of ink just 
 in the right corner of his nose. He had had a very happy day, 
 very quiet, very peaceful, and he was encouraged to believe 
 that he had been a great success. It was true that Sir Charles 
 had addressed very few words to himself and that Lady Bell- 
 Hall had addressed so many during luncheon that he had felt 
 like a canary peppered with bird-seed, but he did not expect 
 Sir Charles to speak very often, nor did he mind how fre- 
 
 83
 
 84: THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 quently the funny little woman in the bonnet spoke, so long 
 as she liked him. It had all been very easy, and the letters 
 had been entrancing, so entrancing that Berkeley Square seemed 
 to be Princes Street, and he could see through the open door 
 Sir Walter's hall and Maria Edgeworth announced and the 
 host's cheery welcome and glorious smile, and the laughter of 
 the children, and Maria dragged into the circle and forced to 
 sing the Highland song with the rest of them, and Honest John 
 hurrying down Castle Street wrapped up against the cold, 
 and the high frosty sky and the Castle frowning over all. 
 
 He had been there surely he had been there in an earlier 
 incarnation, and now this. . . . He was pulled up by a taxi 
 ringing at him fiercely, and by the press of carriages at the 
 Piccadilly turning. 
 
 He was swung suddenly on to the business of the moment, 
 namely that he was going to make his first serious attempt at 
 breaking through into the mysteries of Peter Street, then defi- 
 nitely to do or die although as a matter of honest fact he had 
 no intention whatever of dying just yet. He was borne into 
 Shaftesbury Avenue before he knew where he was, borne by 
 the tide of people, men and women happy in the bright purple- 
 hued spring afternoon, happy in spite of the hard times and 
 the uncertain future, borne along, too, by the cries and sounds, 
 the roll of the omnibuses, the screams of the taxis, the shouting 
 of the newsboys, the murmur of countless voices, the restless 
 rhythm of the unceasing life beneath the brick and mortar, 
 the life of the primeval forests, the ghosts of the serpents and 
 the lions waiting with confident patience for the earth to return 
 to them once more. 
 
 He slipped into Peter Street as into a country marked off 
 from the rest of the world and known to him by heart. This 
 afternoon the barrows and stalls were away; no one was there, 
 not even the familiar policeman. It was like a back-water 
 hidden from the main river, and its traffic by the thick barrier 
 of the forest trees, gleaming in its own sunlight, happy in its 
 solitude. He found the door-bell, listened to it go tinkling into 
 the depths of the house, and after its cessation heard only the 
 thumping of his own heart and the shattered beat of the unrest- 
 ing town.
 
 SECOND PHASE OF THE ADVENTURE 85 
 
 He waited, it seemed, an unconscionable time; then slowly 
 the door opened, revealing to his astonished gaze the girl her- 
 self. So staggered was he by her appearance that for the mo- 
 ment he could only stare. The passage behind her was dark 
 in spite of the strong afternoon sun. 
 
 "Oh!" he said at last. "I came. ... I came. . . . " 
 
 She looked at him. 
 
 "Have you come to see my mother?" The tiny slur of the 
 foreign accent excited him as it had done before. It seemed 
 suddenly that he had known her for ever. 
 
 "Because if you have," she went on. "Mother's out." 
 
 "No/* he said boldly, "I've come to see you." 
 
 She looked back to the stairs as though she were afraid that 
 some one were lurking there and would overhear them. She 
 dropped her voice a little. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," she said. "Mother." Then hurriedly, 
 "Come up. Come up. I don't like being alone and that's the 
 truth. If mother's angry when she comes in I don't care. Any- 
 thing's better." 
 
 She turned and led the way. He followed her, smelling the 
 stuffiness that was like dirty blankets pressed against the nose. 
 There was no window to the stairs, and at the corner it was so 
 dark that he stumbled. He heard her laugh in the distance, 
 then an opened door threw light down. He was in the room 
 where he had been before, enwrapped still in its heavy curtains, 
 and lit even on this lovely day with electric light heavily clouded 
 under the pink silk shades. She was still laughing, standing 
 at the other side of the table. 
 
 He stood awkwardly fingering his hat. He had nothing to 
 say, and they were both silent a long time. Then simply 
 because he was expecting the hated woman's arrival at any 
 moment he began: 
 
 "I've been wanting to come all these three days. I've thought 
 of nothing else, of how you said I could help you and get you 
 out of this. I will. I will I'll do anything. You can come 
 now if you like, and I'll take you to my sister's she's very nice 
 and you'll like her and they can do anything they like, but 
 they shan't take you away. . . . >J 
 
 He was quite breathless with excitement. She stared at him
 
 80 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 gravely as though not understanding what he said. When he 
 saw the puzzle in her eyes his eloquence was suddenly exhausted 
 and he could only stammer out : 
 
 "Thaf s that's what you said the other day that you wanted 
 to escape." 
 
 "To escape?" she repeated. 
 
 "You said that." 
 
 She moved her hands impatiently, and her voice dropped until 
 it was almost a whisper. 
 
 "When you came the other day I was foolish because mother 
 had just been angry. I was excited because she had been angry 
 before that horrid fat woman you remember? I hate her to 
 be angry when she's there because she likes it. She hates me 
 because I'm young and she's old. ... Of course I can't get 
 away and how could I go with you ? I don't know you. Why, 
 you're only a boy!" Then she added reflectively, as though 
 she were giving the final conclusive argument, "and you've got 
 ink on your nose." 
 
 Henry committed then what is always a foolish seeming act 
 at the very best, he took out a not very clean handkerchief, 
 licked a corner of it with his tongue and rubbed his nose. 
 
 "It's on the right side in the corner," she said, regarding 
 him. 
 
 "Is it off now?" he asked her. 
 
 "Yes/' 
 
 Henry then pulled himself together and behaved like a man. 
 
 "I don't know what you mean now," he said, "about not 
 wanting me to help you, but you did say that the other day 
 and you must take the consequences. I don't want to help you 
 in any way, of course, that you don't want to be helped, but I 
 am sure there is something I can do for you. And in any case 
 I'm going on coming to see you until I'm stopped by physical 
 force even then I'm going on coming." 
 
 "I'll tell you this," she said suddenly. "I don't want you to 
 come because mother wants you to, and every one whom mother 
 wants me to like is horrid. Why does she want you to come ?" 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know/' said Henry, surprised. "She can't 
 know anything about me at all." 
 
 "She does. She's found out in these two days. She said
 
 SECOND PHASE OF THE ADVENTUKE 87 
 
 yesterday afternoon she wondered you hadn't come, and then 
 this morning again." 
 
 Henry said: "Won't you take me as I am? Your mother 
 doesn't know me. I want to be your friend. I've wanted to 
 from the first moment I saw you in Piccadilly Circus." 
 
 "In Piccadilly Circus?" 
 
 "Yes. That's where I first saw you the other afternoon and 
 I followed you here." 
 
 That seemed to her of no importance. "Friend?" she said 
 frowning and staring in front of her. "I don't like that word. 
 Two or three have wanted to be friends. I won't have friends. 
 I won't have anybody. I'd rather be alone." 
 
 "I can't hurt you," said Henry very simply. "Why every 
 one laughs at me, even my sister who's very fond of me. They 
 won't laugh one day, of course, but you see how it is. There's 
 always ink on my nose, or I tumble down when I want to do 
 something important. You'd have thought the army would 
 have changed that, but it didn't." 
 
 She smiled then. "No, you don't look as though you'd hurt 
 anybody. But I don't want to trust people. It only means 
 you're disappointed again." 
 
 "You can't be disappointed in me," Henry said earnestly. 
 "Because I'm just what you see. Please let me come and see 
 you. I want it more than I've ever wanted anything in my life." 
 
 They both heard then steps on the stair. They stopped and 
 listened. The room was at once ominous, alarmed. 
 
 Henry felt danger approaching, as though he could see be- 
 yond the door with his eyes and found on the stair some dark 
 shape, undefined and threatening. The steps came nearer and 
 ceased. Two were there listening on the other side of the door 
 as two were listening within the room. 
 
 He felt the girl's fear and that suddenly stiffened his ovm 
 courage. It was almost ludicrous then when the door opened 
 and revealed the stout Mrs. Tenssen, clothed now in light or- 
 ange and with her an old man. 
 
 Henry saw at once that however eagerly she had hitherto 
 expected him she was not easy at his presence just now. His 
 further glance at the old man showed him at once an enemy 
 for life. In any case he did not like old men. The War had
 
 88 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 carried him with the rest upon the swing of that popular cry 
 ""Every one over seventy to the lethal chamber." 
 
 Moreover, he personally knew no old men, which made the 
 cry much simpler. This old man was not over seventy, he might 
 indeed be still under sixty, but his small peak of a white beard, 
 his immaculate clothing and his elegantly pointed patent leather 
 shoes were sufficient for Henry. Immaculate old men! How 
 dared they wear anything but sackcloth and ashes? 
 
 Mrs. Tenssen, whose orange garments shone with ill-temper, 
 shook hands with Henry as though she expected him instantly 
 to say: "Well, I must be going now," but he found himself 
 with an admirable pugnacity and defiant resolve. 
 
 "I called as I said I would," he observed pleasantly. "And 
 I came in by the door and not by the window," he added, laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 She murmured something, but did not attempt to introduce 
 him to her companion. 
 
 He meanwhile had advanced with rather mincing steps to the 
 girl, was bowing over her hand and then to Henry's infinite 
 disgust was kissing it. Then Henry forgot all else in his adora- 
 tion of the girl. He will never forget, to the end of whatever 
 life that may be granted him, the picture that she made at that 
 moment, standing in the garish, overlighted room, like a queen 
 in her aloofness from them all, from everything that life could 
 offer if that room, that old man, that woman were truly typical 
 of its gifts. "It wasn't only," Henry said afterwards to Peter, 
 "that she was beautiful. Millie's beautiful more beautiful I 
 suppose than Christina. But Millie is flesh and blood. You 
 can believe that she has toothache. But it was like a spell, 
 a witchery. The beastly old man himself felt it. As though 
 he had tried to step on to sacred ground and was thrown back 
 on to common earth again. By gad, Peter, you don't know 
 how stupid he suddenly looked and how beastly ! She's remote, 
 a vision not perhaps for any one to touch ever ... !" 
 
 "That," said Peter, "is because you're in love with her and 
 Millie's your sister." 
 
 "No, there's more than that. It may be partly because she's 
 a foreigner but you'd feel the same if you saw her. Her 
 remoteness, as though the farther towards her you moved the
 
 SECOND PHASE OF THE ADVENTURE 89 
 
 farther away she'd be. Always in the distance and knowing 
 that you can come no nearer. And yet if she knew that really 
 she wouldn't be so frightened as she is. ... " 
 
 "It's all because you're so young, Henry/' Peter ended up. 
 
 But young or no Henry just then wasn't very happy. The 
 old man with his shrill voice and his ironic, almost cynical 
 determination to be pleased with everything that any one did 
 or said (it came, maybe, from a colossal and patronizing arro- 
 gance) reminded Henry of the old "nicky-nacky" Senator 
 in Otway's Venice Preserved which he had once seen per- 
 formed by some amateur society. He remained entirely 
 unclouded by Mrs. Tenssen's obvious boredom and ill-temper, 
 moods so blatantly displayed that Henry in spite of himself 
 was crushed. 
 
 The girl showed no signs of any further interest in the com- 
 pany. 
 
 Mrs. Tenssen sat at the table, picking her teeth with a tooth- 
 pick and saying, "Indeed !" or "Well I never !" in an abstracted 
 fashion when the old man's pauses seemed to demand some- 
 thing. Her bold eyes moved restlessly round the room, pausing 
 upon things as though she hated them and sometimes upon 
 Henry who was standing, indeterminately, first on one foot and 
 then on another. Something the old man said seemed suddenly 
 to rouse her: 
 
 "Well, that's not fair, Mr. Leishman it's not indeed. That's 
 as good as saying that you think I'm mean it is indeed. Oh, 
 yes, it is. You can accuse me of many things Pm not perfect 
 but meanness ! Well you ask my friends. You ask my friend 
 Mrs. Armstrong who's known me as long as any one has 
 almost from the cradle you might say. Mean ! You ask her. 
 Why, only the other day, the day Mr. Prothero was here and 
 that young nephew of his, she said, 'Of all the generous souls 
 on this earth, for real generosity and no half-and-half about it, 
 you give me Katie Tenssen/ Of course, she's a friend as you 
 might say and partial perhaps but still that's what she said 
 and " 
 
 The old man had been trying again and again to interrupt 
 this flood. At last, because Mrs. Tenssen was forced to take 
 a breath, he broke in:
 
 90 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 "No. No. Indeed not. Dear, dear, what a mistake! The 
 last thing I was suggesting." 
 
 "Well, I hope so, I'm sure." The outburst over, Mrs. Tenssen 
 relapsed into teeth-picking again. 
 
 Henry saw that there was nothing more to be got from the 
 situation just then. 
 
 "I must be going," he said. "Important engagement." 
 
 Mrs. Tenssen shook him by the hand. She regarded him 
 with a wider amiability now that he was departing. 
 
 "Come and see us again," she said. "Any afternoon almost." 
 
 By the door he turned, and suddenly the girl, from the far 
 end of the room, smiled. It was a smile of friendship, of 
 reassurance and, best of all, of intimacy. 
 
 Under the splendour of it he felt the blood rush to his head, 
 his eyes were dimmed, he stumbled down the stairs, the happiest 
 creature in London. 
 
 The smile accompanied him for the rest of that day, through 
 the night, and into the Duncombe library next morning. That 
 morning was not an easy one for Henry. He arrived with the 
 stern determination to work his very hardest and before the 
 luncheon bell sounded to reduce at least some of the letters 
 to discipline and sobriety. Extraordinary the personal life 
 that those letters seemed to possess! You would suppose that 
 they did not wish to be made into a book, or at any rate, if that 
 had to be, that they did not wish the compiler of the work to 
 be Henry. They slipped from under his fingers, hid themselves, 
 deprived him of dates just when he most urgently needed them, 
 gave him Christian names when he must have surnames, and 
 were sometimes so old and faded and yellow that it was impos- 
 sible to make anything out of them at all. 
 
 Sir Charles had as yet shown no sign. Of what he was think- 
 ing it was impossible to guess. He had not yet given Henry 
 any private letters to write, and the first experiment on the 
 typewriter was still to be made. One day soon he would spring, 
 and with his long nose hanging over the little tattered, disor- 
 dered piles on Henry's table would peer and finger and examine : 
 Henry knew that that moment was approaching and that he 
 must have something ready, but this morning he could not con-
 
 SECOND PHASE OF THE ADVENTUKE 91 
 
 centrate. The plunge into life had been too sudden. The 
 girl was with him in the room, standing just a little way from 
 him smiling at him. . . . 
 
 And behind her again there were Millie and the Platts, and 
 Peter and the three Graces, and the Eomantic Novel and even 
 Mr. King and behind these again all London with its bang- 
 ing, clattering, booming excitement, the omnibuses running, the 
 flags flying, the Bolshevists with their plots, and the shops with 
 their jewels and flowers, the actors and actresses rehearsing in 
 the theatres, the messenger boys running with messages, the 
 policemen standing with hands outstretched, the newspapers 
 announcing the births and the deaths and the marriages, 
 D'Annunzio in Fiume, the Poles in Warsaw fighting for their 
 lives, the Americans in New York drinking secretly in little 
 back bedrooms and the sun rising and setting all over the place 
 at an incredible speed. 
 
 It was of no use to say that Henry had nothing to do with 
 any of these things. He might have something to do with any 
 one of them at any moment. Stop for an instant to see whether 
 the ground is going to open in Piccadilly Circus and you are 
 lost! or found! at any rate, you are taken, neck and crop, 
 and flung into life whether you wish it or no. And Henry did 
 wish it! He loved this nearness and closeness, this sense of 
 being both one of the audience and the actors at one and the 
 same time! Meanwhile the letters, with their gentle slightly 
 scornful evocation of another world, only a little behind this one, 
 and in its own opinion at any rate, infinitely superior to it, 
 were waiting for his concentration. 
 
 Then the Buncombe family itself was beginning to absorb 
 him, wifch its own dramatic possibilities. At luncheon that day 
 he was made forcibly aware of that drama. 
 
 Lady Bell-Hall had from the first stirred his eager sympa- 
 thies. He was so very sorry for the poor little woman. He did 
 so eagerly wish that he could persuade her to be a little less 
 frightened at the changes that were going on around her. 
 After all, if Duncombe Hall had to be sold and if she were 
 forced to 'live in a litle flat and have only one servant, did it 
 matter so terribly? Even though Soviets were set up in London 
 and strange men with red handkerchiefs and long black beards
 
 92 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 did sit at Westminster there would still be many delightful 
 things left to enjoy ! Her health was good, her appetite quite 
 admirable and the Young Women's Christian Association and 
 Society for the Comfort of Domestic Servants and the Leagus 
 of Pity for Aged Widowers (some among many of Lady Bell- 
 Hall's interests) would in all probability survive many Kevo- 
 lutions or, at least, even though they changed their names, 
 would turn into something equally useful and desirous of help. 
 He longed to say some of these things to her. 
 
 His opportunity suddenly and rather uncomfortably arrived. 
 
 Lady Bell-Hall in appearance resembled a pretty little pig 
 that is, she had the features of a pig, a very young pig before 
 time has enveloped it in fat. And so soft and pink were her 
 cheeks, so round her little arms, of so delicate a white her 
 little nose, so beseechingly grey her eyes that you realised very 
 forcibly how charming and attractive sucklings might easily 
 be. She sat at the end of the round mahogany table in the long 
 dark dining-room, talked to her unresponsive brother and some- 
 times to Henry in a soft gentle voice with a little plaint in it, 
 infinitely touching and pathetic, hoping against hope for the 
 best. 
 
 To-day there came to the luncheon an old friend of the family, 
 whose name Henry had once or twice heard, a Mr. Light- 
 Johnson. 
 
 Mr. Light-Johnson was a long, thin, cadaverous-looking man 
 with black sleek hair and a voice like a murmuring brook. He 
 paid no attention to Henry and very little to Duncombe, but 
 he sat next to Lady Bell-Hall and leaned towards her and stared 
 into her face with large wondering eyes that seemed always to 
 be brimming with unshed tears. 
 
 There are pessimists and pessimists, and it seems to be one 
 of the assured rules of life that however the world may turn, 
 whatever unexpected joys may flash upon the horizon, how- 
 ever many terrible disasters may be averted from mankind, 
 pessimists will remain pessimists to the end. And such a 
 pessimist as this Henry had never before seen. 
 
 He had an irritating, tantalizing habit of lifting a spoonful 
 of soup to his lips and then putting it down again because of 
 his interest in what he was saying.
 
 SECOND PHASE OF THE ADVENTUEE 93 
 
 "What I feared last Wednesday," he said, "has already come 
 true/' 
 
 "Oh dear!" said Lady Bell-Hall. "What is that?" 
 
 "The Eed Flag is flying in East Croydon. The Workers' 
 Industrial Union have commandeered the Y.M.C.A reading- 
 room and have issued a manifesto to the Croydon Parish 
 Council." 
 
 "Dear, dear! Dear, dear!" said Lady Bell-Hall. 
 
 "It is a melancholy satisfaction," said Mr. Light- Johnson, 
 "to think how right one was last Wednesday. I hardly expected 
 that my words would be justified so quickly." 
 
 "And do you think," said Lady Bell-Hall, "that the move- 
 ment taking Y.M.C.A. reading-rooms I mean will spread 
 quickly over London?" 
 
 "Dear Lady," said Mr. Light-Johnson, "I can't disguise 
 from you that I fear the worst. It would he foolish to do any 
 other. I have a cousin, Major Merriward you've heard me speak 
 of him whose wife is a niece of one of Winston Churchill's 
 secretaries. He told me last night at the Club that Churchill's 
 levity ! well, it's scandalous Nero fiddling while Eome burns 
 isn't in it at all! I must tell you frankly that I expect com- 
 plete Bolshevist rule in London within the next three months." 
 
 "Oh dear! oh dear!" said Lady Bell-Hall. "Do have a little 
 of that turbot, Mr. Johnson. You're eating nothing. I'm 
 only too afraid you're right. The banks will close and we shall 
 all starve." 
 
 "For the upper classes," said Mr. Johnson, "the consequences 
 will be truly terrible. In Petrograd to-day Dukes and Duchesses 
 are acting as scavengers in the streets. What else can we 
 expect? I heard from a man in the Club yesterday, whose son 
 was in the Archangel forces that it is Lenin's intention to move 
 to London and to make it the centre of his world rule. I leave 
 it to you to imagine, Lady Bell- Hall, how safe any of us will 
 be when we are in the power of Chinese and Mongols." 
 
 "Chinese !" cried Lady Bell-Hall. "Chinese !" 
 
 "Undoubtedly. They will police London or what is left of 
 it, because there will of course be severe fighting first, and now- 
 adays, with aerial warfare what it is, a few days' conflict will 
 reduce London to a heap of ruins."
 
 94 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 "And what about the country ?" asked Lady Bell-Hall. "I'm 
 sure the villagers at Duncombe are very friendly. And so they 
 ought to be considering the way that Charles has always treated 
 them." 
 
 "It's from the peasantry that I fear the worst," said Mr. 
 Light-Johnson. "After all it has always been so. Think of 
 La Vendee, think of the Russian peasantry in this last Revo- 
 lution. No, there is small comfort there, I'm afraid." 
 
 Throughout this little conversation Duncombe had kept silent. 
 Now he broke in with a little ironic chuckle ; this was the first 
 time that Henry had heard him laugh. 
 
 "Just think, Margaret," he said, "of Spiders. Spiders is our 
 gardener, Light- Johnson, a stout cheery fellow. He will prob- 
 ably be local executioner." 
 
 Light-Johnson turned and looked at his host with reproach- 
 ful eyes. 
 
 "Many a true word before now has been spoken in jest, 
 Duncombe," he said. "You will at any rate not deny that this 
 coming winter is going to be an appalling one what with 
 strikes, unemployment and the price of food for ever going up 
 all this with the most incompetent Government that any 
 country has ever had in the world's history. I don't think that 
 even you, Duncombe, can call the outlook very cheerful." 
 
 "Every Government is the worst that any country's ever had," 
 said Duncombe. "However, I daresay you're right, Light-John- 
 son. Perhaps this is the end of the world. Who knows? And 
 what does it matter if it is ?" 
 
 "Really, Charles!" Lady Bell-Hall was eating her cutlet 
 with great rapidity, as though she expected a naked Chinaman 
 to jump in through the window at any moment and snatch it 
 from her. "But seriously, Mr. Light-Johnson, do you see no 
 hope anywhere?" 
 
 "Frankly none at all. I don't think any one could call me 
 a pessimist. I simply look at things as they are the true duty 
 of every man." 
 
 "And what do you think one ought to do?" 
 
 "For myself," said Light-Johnson, helping himself to another 
 cutlet, "I shall spend the com^g winter on the Riviera Men- 
 tone, I think. The Income Tax is so scandalous that I shall
 
 SECOND PHASE OF THE ADVENTURE 95 
 
 probably live in the south of France during the next year or 
 two." 
 
 "And so shoulder your responsibilities like a true British 
 citizen," said Buncombe. "I'm sure you're right. You're lucky 
 to be able to get away so easily." 
 
 Light-Johnson's sallow cheeks flushed ever so slightly. "Of 
 course, if I felt that I could do any good I would remain," he 
 said. "I'm not the sort of man to desert a sinking ship, I hope. 
 Sinking it is, I fear. The great days of England are over. We 
 must not be sentimentalists nor stick our heads, ostrich-wise, 
 in the sand. We must face facts." 
 
 It was here that Henry made his great interruption, an 
 interruption that was, had he only known it, to change the 
 whole of his future career. He had realized thoroughly at 
 first that it was his place to be seen and not heard. Young 
 secretaries were not expected to talk unless they were defi- 
 nitely needed to make a party "go." But as Light-Johnson had 
 continued his own indignation had grown. His eyes, again and 
 again, in spite of himself, sought Lady Bell-Hall's face. He 
 simply could not bear to see the little lady tortured for tor- 
 tured she evidently was. Her little features were all puckered 
 with distress. Her eyes had the wide staring expression of a 
 child seeing a witch for the first time. Every word that Light- 
 Johnson uttered seemed to stab her like a knife. To Henry 
 this was awful. 
 
 "They are not facts. They are not facts !" he cried. "After 
 every war there are years when people are confused. Of course 
 there are. It can't be otherwise. We shall never have Bol- 
 shevism here. Eussian conditions are different from everywhere 
 else. They are all ignorant in Eussia. Millions of ignorant 
 peasants. While prices are high of course people are discon- 
 tented and say they're going to do dreadful things. When every- 
 body's working again prices will go down and then you see how 
 much any one thinks about Eussia! England isn't going to 
 tRe dogs, and it never will !" 
 
 The effect of this outburst was astonishing. Light-Johnson 
 turned round and stared at Henry as though he were a small 
 Pom that had hitherto reposed peacefully under the table but
 
 96 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 had suddenly woken up and bitten his leg. He smiled, his first 
 smile of the day. 
 
 "Quite so," he said indulgently. "Of course. One can't 
 expect every one to have the same views on these matters." 
 
 But Lady Bell-Hall was astonishing. To Henry's amaze- 
 ment she was angry, indignant. She stared at him as though 
 he had offered a deadly insult. Why, she wanted to be made 
 miserable! She liked Mr. Johnson's pessimism! She wished 
 to be tortured ! She preferred it ! She hugged her wound and 
 begged for another turn on the wheel ! 
 
 "Really, Mr. Trenchard," she said, "I don't think you can 
 know very much about it. As Mr. Light-Johnson says, we 
 should face facts." She ended her sentence with a hint of 
 indulgence as though she would say: "He's very, very young. 
 We must excuse him on the score of his youth." 
 
 The rest of the meal was most uncomfortable. Light- John- 
 son would speak no more. Henry was miserable and indignant. 
 He had made a fool of himself, but he was glad that he had 
 spoken ! Lady Bell-Hall would hate him always now and would 
 prejudice her brother against him but he was glad that he had 
 spoken! Nevertheless his cheese choked him, and in embar- 
 rassed despair he took a pear that he did not want, and because 
 no one else had fruit ate it in an overwhelming silence. 
 
 Then in the library he had his reward. Light-Johnson had 
 departed. 
 
 "I shan't want you this afternoon, Trenchard," Duncombe 
 said. Then he added: "You spoke up well. That man's an 
 ass." 
 
 "I shouldn't," he stammered, "have said anything. I don't 
 know enough. I only " 
 
 "Nonsense. You know more than Light-Johnson. Speak 
 up whenever you have a mind to. It does my sister good." 
 
 And this was the beginning of an alliance between the two.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 MILLIE AND PETER 
 
 AND here are some extracts from a diary that Millicent 
 kept at this time. 
 
 April 14. Just a week since I started with the Platts and 
 I feel as though I'd been there all my life. And yet I haven't 
 got the thing going at all. I'm in nearly the same mess as I 
 was the first morning. I'm not proud of myself, but at the 
 same time it isn't my fault. Look at the Interruptions alone ! 
 (I've put a capital because really they are at the heart of all 
 my trouble.) Victoria herself doesn't begin to know what let- 
 ting any one alone is. I seem at present to have an irresistible 
 fascination for her. She sits and stares at me until I feel as 
 though I were some strange animal expected to change into 
 something stranger. 
 
 And she doesn't know what silence means. She says: "I 
 mustn't interrupt your work, my Millie" (I do wish she wouldn't 
 call me "my Millie"), and then begins at once to chatter. All 
 the same one can't help being fond of her at least at present. 
 I expect I shall get very impatient soon and then I'll be rude 
 and then there'll be a scene and then I shall leave. But she 
 really is so helpless and so full of alarms and terrors. Never 
 again will I envy any one with money! I expect before the 
 War she was quite a happy woman with a small allowance from 
 her father, living in Streatham and giving little tea-parties. 
 Now what with Income Tax, servants, motor-cars, begging 
 friends, begging enemies, New Art and her sisters she doesn't 
 know where to turn. Of course Clarice and Ellen are her prin- 
 cipal worries. I've really no patience with Clarice. I hate her 
 silly fat face, pink blanc-mange with its silly fluffy yellow hair. 
 I hate the way she dresses, always too young for her years and 
 always with bits stuck on to her clothes as though she picked 
 
 97
 
 98 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 pieces of velvet and lace up from the floor and pinned them 
 on just anywhere. 
 
 I hate her silly laugh and her vanity and the way that she 
 will recite a poem about a horse (I think it is called some- 
 thing like "Lascar") on the smallest opportunity. I suppose 
 I can't bear seeing any one make a fool of herself or himself 
 and all the people who come to the Platts' house laugh at her. 
 All the same, she's the happiest of the three women; that's 
 because she's more truly conceited than the others. It's funny 
 to see how she prides herself on having learned how to manage 
 Victoria. She's especially sweet to her when she wants any- 
 thing and you can see it coming on hours beforehand. Victoria 
 is a fool in many things but she isn't such a fool as all that. 
 I call Clarice the Ostrich. 
 
 Ellen is quite another matter. By far the most interesting 
 of them. I think she would do something remarkable if she'd 
 only break away from the family and get outside it. Part of 
 her unhappiness comes, I'm sure, from her not being able to 
 make up her mind to do this. She despises herself. And she 
 despises everybody else too. Men especially, she detests men, 
 although she dresses rather like them. Victoria and Clarice 
 are both afraid of her because of the bitter things she says. 
 She glares at the people who come to lunch and tea as though 
 she would like to call fire down and burn them all. It's amusing 
 to see one of the new artists (I beg their pardon New Artists) 
 trying to approach her, attempting flattery and then falling 
 back aware that he has made one enemy in the house at any 
 rate. The funny thing is that she rather likes me, and that 
 is all the stranger because I understand from Brooker, the little 
 doctor, that she always disliked the secretaries. And I haven't 
 been especially sweet to her. Just my ordinary which Mary 
 says is less than civility. . . . 
 
 April 16. Ephraim Block and his friend Adam P. Quinzey 
 (that isn't his real name but it's something like that) to lunch- 
 eon. I couldn't help asking him whether he didn't think the 
 "Eve" rather too large. And didn't he despise me for asking! 
 He told me that when he gets a commission for sculpting in an 
 open space, the tree that goes with the "Eve" will be large 
 enough to shelter all the school children of Europe.
 
 MILLIE AKD PETER 99 
 
 Although he's absurd I can't help being sorry for him. He 
 is so terribly hungry and eats Victoria's food as though he were 
 never going to see another meal again. Ellen tells me that he's 
 got a woman who lives with him by whom he's had about eight 
 children. Poor little things ! And I think Victoria's begin- 
 ning to get tired of him. She's irritated because he wants her 
 to pay for the tree and the serpent as well as Eve herself. He 
 says it isn't his fault that Victoria's house isn't large enough 
 and she says that he hasn't even begun the Tree yet and when 
 he's finished it it will be time enough to talk. Then there are 
 the Balaclavas (the nearest I can get to their names). She's 
 a Russian dancer, very thin and tall and covered with chains 
 and beads, and he's very fat with a dead white face and long 
 black hair. They talk the strangest broken English and are 
 very depressed about life in general as well they may be, 
 poor things. He thinks Pavlowa and Karsavina simply aren't 
 in it with her as artists and I daresay they're not, but one never 
 has a chance of judging because she never gets an engagement 
 anywhere. So meanwhile they eat Victoria's food and try to 
 borrow money of any one in the house who happens to be handy. 
 You can't help liking them, they're so helpless. Of course I 
 know that Block and the Balaclavas and Clarice's friends are 
 all tenth-rate as artists. I've seen enough of Henry's world to 
 see that. They are simply plundering Victoria as Brooker says, 
 but I'm rather glad all the same that for a time at any rate 
 they've found a place with food in it. 
 
 I shan't be glad soon. I'm beginning to realize in myself 
 a growing quite insane desire to get this house straight insane 
 because I don't even see how to begin. And Victoria's very 
 difficult! She loves Power and if you suggest anything and 
 she thinks you're getting too authoritative she at once vetoes 
 it whatever it may be. On the other hand she's truly warm- 
 hearted and kind. If I can keep my temper and stay on per- 
 haps I shall manage it. ... 
 
 April 17. I've had thorough "glooms" to-day. I'm writing 
 this in bed whither I went as early as nine o'clock, Mary being 
 out at a party and the sitting-room looking grizzly. I feel 
 Better already. But a visit to mother always sends me into 
 the depths. It is terrible to me to see her lying there like a
 
 100 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 dead woman, staring in front of her, unable to speak, unable 
 to move. Extraordinary woman that she is ! Even now she 
 won't see Katherine although Katherine tries again and again. 
 
 And I think that she hates me too. That nurse (whom I 
 can't abide) has tremendous power over her. I detest the house 
 now. It's so gloomy and still and corpse-like. When you think 
 of all the people it used to have in it so many that nobody 
 would believe it when we told them. What fun we used to have 
 at Christmas time and on birthdays, and down at Garth too. 
 Philip finished all that not that he meant to, poor dear. 
 
 After seeing mother I had tea with father down in the study. 
 He's jolly when I'm there, but honestly, I think he forgets my 
 very existence when I'm not. He never asked a single ques- 
 tion about Henry. Just goes from his study to his club and 
 back again. He says that his book Haslitt and His Contem- 
 poraries is coming out in the Autumn. I wonder who cares ? 
 
 It makes me very lonely if one thinks about it. Of course 
 there's dear Henry and after him Katherine and Mary. But 
 Henry's got this young woman he picked up in Piccadilly 
 Circus and Katherine's got her babies and Mary her medicine. 
 And I've got the Platts I suppose. . . . 
 
 All the same sometimes it isn't much fun being a modern 
 girl. I daresay liberty and going about like a man's a fine 
 thing, but sometimes I'd like to have some one pet me and 
 make a fuss over me and care whether I'm alive or not. 
 
 On the impulse of this mood, I've asked Peter Westcott to 
 come and have tea with me. He seems lonely too and was really 
 nice at Henry's the other day. Now I shall go to sleep and 
 dream about Victoria's correspondence. 
 
 April 18. A young man to luncheon to-day very different 
 from the others. Humphrey Baxter by name; none of the 
 aesthete about him! Clean, straight-back, decently dressed, 
 cheerful young man. Item, dark with large brown eyes. At 
 first it puzzled me as to how he got into this crowd at all, 
 then I discovered that he's rehearsing in a play that Clarice is 
 getting up, The Importance of Being Earnest. He plays Bun- 
 bury or has something to do with a man called Bunbury any- 
 way they all call him Bunny. He's vastly amused by the aes- 
 thetes and laughs at them all the time, the odd thing is thai
 
 MILLIE AND PETEK 101 
 
 they don't mind. He also knows exactly how to treat Victoria, 
 taking her troubles seriously, although his eyes twinkle, and 
 being really very courteous to her. 
 
 The only one of the family who hates him is Ellen. She 
 can't abide him and told him so to-day, when he challenged her. 
 He asked her why she hated him. She said, "You're useless, 
 vain and empty-headed." He said, "Vain and empty-headed 
 I may be, but useless no. I oil the wheels." She said hers 
 didn't need oiling and he said that if ever they did need it she 
 was to send for him. This little sparring match was very light- 
 hearted on his side, deadly earnest on hers. The only other 
 person who isn't sure of him is Brooker I don't know why. 
 
 Of course I like him Bunny I mean. What it is to have 
 some one gay and sensible in this household. He likes me too. 
 Ellen says he goes after every girl he sees. 
 
 I don't care if he does. I can look after myself. She's a 
 queer one. She's always looking at me as though she wanted 
 to speak to me. And yesterday a strange thing happened. I 
 was going upstairs and she was going down. We met at the 
 corner and she suddenly bent forward and kissed me on the 
 cheek. Then she ran on upstairs as though the police were 
 after her. I don't very much like being kissed by other women 
 I must confess; however, if it gives her pleasure, poor thing, 
 I'm glad. She's so unhappy and so cross with herself and 
 every one else. 
 
 April 20. Bunny comes every day now. He says he wants 
 to tell me about his life a very interesting one he says. He 
 complains that he never finds me alone. I tell him I have my 
 work to do. 
 
 April 21. Bunny wants me to act in Clarice's play. I said I 
 wouldn't for a million pounds. Clarice is furious with me and 
 says I'm flirting with him. 
 
 April 22. Bunny and I are going to a matinee of Chu Chin 
 Chow. He says he's been forty-four times and I haven't been 
 once. He likes to talk to me about his mother. He wants me 
 to meet her. 
 
 April 24. Clarice won't speak to me. I don't care. Why 
 shouldn't I have a little fun ? And Bunny is a good sort. He 
 certainly isn't very clever, but he says his strong line is motor-
 
 102 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 cars, about which I know nothing. After all, if some one's 
 clever in one thing thaf s enough. I'm not clever in any- 
 thing. . . . 
 
 April 25. Sunday, I went over to luncheon to see whether 
 I could do anything for Victoria and had an extraordinary 
 conversation with Ellen. She insisted on my going up to her 
 bedroom with her after luncheon. A miserable looking room, 
 with one large photograph over the bed of a girl, rather pretty. 
 Mary Pickford prettiness and nothing else at all. 
 
 She began at once, a tremendous tirade, striding about the 
 room, her hands behind her back. Words poured forth like 
 bath-water out of a pipe. She said that I hated her and that 
 every one hated her. That she had always been hated and she 
 didn't care, but liked it. That she hoped that more people 
 would hate her; that it was an honour to be hated by most 
 people. But that she didn't want me to hate her and that she 
 couldn't think why I did. Unless of course I'd listened to what 
 other people said of her that I'd probably done that as every 
 one did it. But she had hoped that I was wiser. And kinder. 
 And more generous. . . . Here she paused for breath and I was 
 able to get in a word saying that I didn't hate her, that nobody 
 had said anything against her, that in fact I liked her Oh 
 no, I didn't. Ellen burst in. No, no, I didn't. Any one could 
 see that. I was the only person she'd ever wanted to like her 
 and she wasn't allowed to have even that. I assured her that 
 I did like her and considered her my friend and that we'd 
 always be friends. Upon that she burst into tears, looking too 
 strange, sitting in an old rocking-chair and rocking herself 
 up and down. I can't bear to see any one cry; it doesn't stir 
 my pity as it ought to do. It only makes me irritated. So I 
 just sat on her bed and waited. At last she stopped and sniffing 
 a good deal, got up and came over. She sat down on the bed 
 and suddenly put her arms round me and stroked my hair. 
 I can't bear to have my hair stroked by anybody or at least 
 by almost anybody. However, I sat there and let her do it, 
 because she seemed so terribly unhappy. 
 
 I suppose she felt I wasn't very responsive because suddenly 
 she got up very coldly and with great haughtiness as though 
 she were a queen dismissing an audience. "Well, now you'd
 
 MILLIE AND PETER 103 
 
 better go. Fve made a sufficient fool of myself for one day." 
 So I got up too and laughed because it seemed the easiest thing 
 and said that I was her friend and always would be and would 
 help her anyway I could but that I wasn't very sentimental and 
 couldn't help it if I wasn't. And she said still very haughtily 
 that I didn't understand her but that that wasn't very strange 
 because after all no one else did, and would I go because she 
 had a headache and wanted to lie down. So I went. 
 
 Wasn't I glad after this to find Bunny downstairs. He sug- 
 gested a walk and as Victoria was sleeping on the Sunday beef 
 upstairs I agreed and we went along all through the Park and 
 up to the Marble Arch, and the sun was so bright that it made 
 the sheep look blue and the buds were waxy and there were lots 
 of dogs and housemaids being happy with soldiers and babies 
 in prams and all the atheists and Bolsheviks as cheery as any- 
 thing on their tubs. Bunny really is a darling. He sees all 
 the funny things, just as I do; I don't believe a word that Ellen 
 says about him. He assures me that he's only loved one girl 
 in his life and that he gave her up because she said that she 
 wouldn't have babies. He was quite right I think. He says that 
 he's just falling in love again with some one else now. Of 
 course he may mean me and he certainly looked as though he 
 did. I don't care. I want to be happy and people to like me 
 and every one to love everybody. Why shouldn't they? Not 
 uncomfortably, making scenes like Ellen, but just happily with 
 a sense of humour and not expecting miracles. I said this to 
 Bunny and he agreed. 
 
 We had tea in a cafe in Oxford Street. He wanted to take 
 me to a Cinema after that but I wouldn't. I went home and 
 read Lord Jim until Mary came in. That's the book Henry 
 used to be crazy about. I think Bunny is rather like Jim 
 although, of course, Bunny isn't a coward. . . . 
 
 Now Millie was seized with a strange and unaccountable hap- 
 piness unaccountable to her because she did not try to account 
 for it. Simply, everything was lovely the weather, the shops, 
 the people in the streets, Mary, Henry, the Platts (although 
 Clarice pouted at her and Ellen was sulky). Everything was
 
 104 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 lovely. She danced, she sang, she laughed. Nothing and 
 nobody could offend her. . . . 
 
 In the middle of this happiness Peter Westcott came to tea. 
 She had asked him because she was sorry for him and because 
 she felt that she had not been quite fair to him in the past. 
 Nevertheless as she waited for him in her little sitting-room 
 there was a little patronage and contempt for him still in her 
 heart. She had always thought of him as old and gloomy and 
 solemn. He seemed to her to be that to-day as he came in, 
 stayed awkwardly for a moment by the door and then came 
 forward with heavy rather lumbering steps towards her. But 
 his hand was warm and strong a clean good grip that she 
 liked. He sat down, making her wicker chair creak then 
 there was an untidy pause. She gave him his tea and some- 
 thing to eat and talked about the weather. 
 
 At another time, it might be, the ice would never have been 
 broken and he would have gone away, leaving them no closer 
 than they had been before. But to-day her happiness was too 
 much for her; she could not see him without wanting to make 
 him laugh. 
 
 "Have you seen Henry?" she asked. It was so difficult to 
 speak much about Henry without smiling. 
 
 "Not for a week," he answered, "he's very busy with his 
 Baronet and his strange young woman." Then he smiled. He 
 looked straight across at her, into her eyes. 
 
 "Why did you ask me to come to tea?" 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Yes, because you don't like me. You think me a tiresome 
 middle-aged bore and a bad influence for Henry." His eyes 
 drew her own. Suddenly she liked his face, his clear honest 
 gaze, his strong mouth and something there that spoke unmis- 
 takably of loyalty and courage. 
 
 "Well, I didn't like you," she said after a moment's pause. 
 "That's quite true. I liked you for the first time at Henry's 
 the other day. You see I've had no chance of knowing you, 
 have I? And I decided that we ought to know one another 
 because of Henry." 
 
 "Do you really want to know me better?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, I really want to/' she answered.
 
 MILLIE AKD PETEK 105 
 
 "Well, then, I must tell you something something about 
 myself. I never speak about the past to anybody. Of what im- 
 portance can it be to anybody but myself? But if we are 
 going .to be friends you ought to know something of it and 
 I'm going to tell you." 
 
 She saw that he had, before he came, made up his mind as 
 to exactly the things that he would tell her, that without real- 
 izing it he intended it as an honour that he should want to 
 tell her. Then, too, her feminine curiosity stirred in her. 
 Henry had told her a little, a very little, about him; she knew 
 that he had had a bad time, that he was married, but that his 
 wife had been seen by no one for many years, that he had 
 written some books now forgotten, that he had done well in 
 the War and that was all. 
 
 "Tell me everything you like/' she said. "I'm proud that you 
 should want to." 
 
 "I was born," Peter began, "in a little town called Treliss on 
 the borders of Cornwall and Glebeshire in '84. I had a very 
 rotten childhood. I won't bore you with all that, but my mother 
 was frightened into her grave by my father who hated me and 
 everybody else. He sent me to a bad school, and at last I ran 
 away up to London. I had one friend, a Treliss fisherman, 
 who was the best human being I've ever known, and he came 
 up to London with me. Things went from bad to worse the 
 first years, but looking back on it I can only see everything 
 that happened in the most ridiculously romantic light absurd 
 things that I'd like to tell you more about in detail some time. 
 They were 50 absurd; you simply wouldn't believe me if I told 
 you. I was mixed up for instance with melodramatic theatrical 
 anarchists who tried to blow up poor old Victoria when she 
 was out riding. Looking back now I can't be sure that those 
 things ever really happened at all. 
 
 "I never seem to meet such people now or to see such things. 
 Was it only my youth perhaps that made me fancy it all like 
 that? You and Henry, may be, are imagining things in just 
 that way now. Stephen, for instance, my fisherman friend. 
 I've never met any one like him since so good, so simple, so 
 direct, so childlike. I knew magnificent men in the War as
 
 106 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 direct and simple as Stephen, but they didn't affect me in the 
 way he did that may have been my youth again. 
 
 "Whatever it was we went lower and lower. We couldn't 
 get any work and we were just about starving, when I got ill, 
 so ill that I should have died if the luck hadn't suddenly turned, 
 an old school friend of mine appeared and carried me off to 
 his home. Yes, luck turned with a vengeance then. I had writ- 
 ten a story and it was published and it had a little success. 
 One thinks you know that that little success is a very big 
 one the first time it comes that every one is talking about one 
 and reading one when really it is a few thousand people at 
 the most. 
 
 "Anyway that first success put me on my feet. It was during 
 those years after the Boer War when I think literary success 
 was easier to get than it is now more attention was paid to 
 writing because the world was quieter and had leisure to think 
 about the arts and money to pay for them. I don't mean that 
 genius, real genius, wouldn't find it just as easy now as 
 then to come along and establish itself, but I wasn't a genius, 
 of course, nor anything like one. Well, I had friends and a 
 home and work and everything should have been well, but I 
 always felt that something was working against me, some bad 
 influence, some ill omen I've felt it all my life, I feel it now, 
 I shall feel it till I die. Lucky, healthy people can laugh at 
 those things, but when you feel them you don't laugh. You 
 know better. Then I married the daughter of people who 
 lived near by in Chelsea; I was terribly in love; although I 
 felt there was something working against us, yet I couldn't see 
 how now it could touch us. I was sure that she loved me I 
 knew that I loved her. She was such a child that I thought 
 that I could guide her and form her and make her what I 
 wanted. From the first there was something wrong; I can see 
 that now looking back. She had been spoilt because she was 
 an only child and had a stupid silly mother, and she was afraid 
 of everything of being ill, of being hurt, of being poor. She 
 was conventional too, and only liked the people from the class 
 she knew, people who did all the same things, spoke the same 
 way, ate the same way, dressed the same way. I remember 
 that some of my Glebeshire friends came to see me one day and
 
 MILLIE AND PETER 107 
 
 frightened her out of her life. Poor Clare! I should under- 
 stand her now I think, but I don't know. One has things put 
 into one and things left out of one before one's born and you 
 can't alter them, you can only restrain them, keep them in 
 check. I had something fundamentally wild in me, she some- 
 thing tame in her. If we had both been older and wiser we 
 might have compromised as all married people have to, I sup- 
 pose, but we were both so young that we expected perfection, 
 nay, we demanded it. Perfection! Lord, what youth! . . . 
 Then a baby was born, a boy I let myself go over that boy!" 
 . . . Peter paused. ... "I can't talk much about that even 
 now. He died. Then everything went wrong. Clare said 
 she'd never have another child. And she was tired of me and 
 frightened of me too. I can see now that she had much justice 
 there. I must have been a dull dog after the boy died, and 
 when I'm dull I am dull. I get so easily convinced that Pm 
 meant to fail, that I've no right in the world at all. Clare 
 wanted fun and gaiety. 
 
 "We hadn't the means for it anyway. I was writing badly. 
 I couldn't keep my work clear of my troubles; I couldn't get 
 right at it as one must if one's going to get it on to paper 
 with any conviction. My books failed one after another and 
 with justice. 
 
 "People spoke of me as a failure, and that Clare couldn't 
 endure. She hadn't ever cared very much for my writing, 
 only for the success that it brought. Well, you can see the 
 likely end of it all. She ran off to Paris with my best friend, 
 a man who'd been at school with me, whom I'd worshipped." 
 
 "Oh," Millie said, "I'm sorry." 
 
 "I only got what I deserved. Another man would have 
 managed Clare all right made a success out of the whole 
 thing. There's something in me a kind of blindness or 
 obstinacy or pride that sends people away from me. You 
 know it yourself. You recognized it in me from the first. 
 Henry didn't, simply because he's so ingenuous and so warm- 
 hearted. He forgets himself entirely; you and I think of 
 ourselves a good deal. I went back to Treliss. I had a friend 
 there, a woman, who showed me a little how things were. I 
 wanted to give everything up and just booze my time away and
 
 108 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 sink into a worthless loafer as my father had done. She pre- 
 vented me, and I had, too, a strange revelation one night out 
 on the hills beyond Treliss when I saw things clearly for an 
 hour or two. 
 
 "I determined to come back and fight it out. I could show 
 pluck even though I couldn't show anything else. Now I can 
 see that there was something false in that as there was in so 
 many of the crises of my life, because I was thinking only of 
 myself set up against all the world and the devil and all the 
 furies, making a fine figure while the armies of God stood 
 by admiring and whispering one to another, 'He's a fine fighter 
 there's something in that fellow/ 
 
 "It was in just that mood that I came back to London. I 
 went over to Paris and searched for Clare, couldn't hear any- 
 thing of her, then came back and buried myself. 
 
 "I was full of this idea of courage, my back to the wall and 
 fighting the universe. So I just shut myself up, got a little 
 journalism sporting journalism it was, football matches and 
 boxing and cricket and grouched along. The other men on 
 the sporting paper thought me too conceited for words and 
 left me alone. I drank a bit too, the worst kind of drinking, 
 alone in one's room. 
 
 "Then the War came, thank God. I won't bother you with 
 that, but it kept me occupied until the Armistice, then suddenly 
 I was flung back again with all my old troubles thick upon 
 me once more. I remember one day I had been seeing a 
 rich successful novelist. He talked to me about his successes 
 until I was sick. Then in the evening I went and saw the 
 other end of the business, the young unpopular geniuses who 
 are going to change the world. Both seemd to me equally 
 futile, and once again I was tempted to end it all and' just let 
 myself go when I suddenly, standing there in Piccadilly Circus, 
 Baw myself just as I had years before at Treliss and my pre- 
 tentiousness and lack of humour and proportion. And I saw 
 how small we were, and what children, and how short life was, 
 and then and there I swore I'd never take myself so seriously 
 again as to talk about 'going to the dogs/ or 'fighting fate/ or 
 *being a success/ or 'destiny being against me/ I cheered up a
 
 MILLIE A1STD PETER 109 
 
 lot after that. That was my second turning-point. You and 
 Henry have made the third." 
 
 "Me and Henry?" said Millie, regardless of grammar. 
 
 "That's why I've hurdened you with this lengthy discourse. 
 I haven't spoken of myself for years to a soul. But I want your 
 friendship. I want it terribly and I'll tell you why. 
 
 "You and Henry are young. I see now that it's only the 
 young who matter any more. If you take the present state of 
 the world from the point of view of the middle-aged or old, 
 it's all utterly hopeless. We may as well make a bonfire of 
 London and go up in the sparks. There's nothing to be said. 
 It's as bad as it can be. There simply isn't time for even the 
 young middle-aged to set things right. But for the young, 
 for every one under thirty it's grand. There's a new city to 
 be built, all the pieces of the old one lying around to teach 
 you lessons the greatest time to be born into in the world's 
 history. 
 
 "And what the middle-aged and old have to do is to feed 
 the young, to encourage them, laugh at them, give them health 
 and strength and brains, such as they are, to stiffen them, 
 to be patient with them, and for them, not to lie down and let 
 the young trample, but to work with them, behind them, around 
 them above all, to love them, to clear the ground for them, 
 to sympathize and understand them, and to tell them, if they 
 shouldn't see it, that they have such a chance, such an oppor- 
 tunity, as has never before been given to the son of man. 
 
 "For myself what is there? The world that was mine is 
 gone, is burnt up, destroyed. But for you, for you and Henry 
 and the great company with you. Golly ! What a time !" 
 
 He mopped his brow. He looked at Millie and laughed. 
 
 "Please forgive me," he said. "I haven't let myself go like 
 this for years !" 
 
 Millie's sympathy was, for the moment, stronger than her 
 vocabulary, her sympathy, that is, for the earlier part of his 
 declaration. As he recounted to her his own story she had 
 been readily, eagerly carried away, feeling the absolute truth 
 of everything that he said, responding to all his trouble and his 
 loneliness. When he had spoken of his boy she had almost
 
 110 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 loved him, the maternal in her coming out so that she longed 
 to put her arms round him and comfort him. He seemed, as 
 every man seems to every woman, at such a time, himself a child 
 younger than she, more helpless than any woman. But at the 
 end he had swung her on to another mood. She did not know 
 that she liked being addressed as The Young. She felt in 
 this, as she had always before felt with him, that there was 
 something a little priggish, a little laughable in his earnestness. 
 She did not see herself in any group with thousands of other 
 young men and young women. She was not sure that she felt 
 young at all and in any case she was simply Millicent Trench- 
 ard with Millicent Trenchard's body, ambitions and purposes. 
 She had also instinctively the Trenchard distrust of all naked 
 emotions nakedly displayed. This she was happily to conquer 
 but not yet. 
 
 She felt finally as though she were a specimen in a glass jar, 
 set up on the laboratory table, and that the professor was 
 beginning : 
 
 "You will now notice that we have an excellent specimen of 
 The Young. . . ." 
 
 Then she looked at him and saw how deeply in earnest he 
 was, and that he himself was feeling true British embarrassment 
 at his unforeseen demonstration. This called forth her maternal 
 emotions again. He was a dear old thing a little childish, a 
 little old and odd, but he needed her help and her sympathy. 
 
 "I'll tell you," she said, "I don't think it's very much good 
 putting us all into lumps like that. For instance, you couldn't 
 place Mary Cass and myself in the same division, however hard 
 you tried. If you are going simply by years, then that's 
 absurd, because Mary is years older than I am in some things 
 and years younger in others. One's just as old as one feels," 
 she added with deep profundity, as though she were stating 
 something quite new and fresh that had never been said before. 
 
 He smiled, looking at her with great affection. 
 
 "I don't want you to look upon yourself as anything in par- 
 ticular," he said. "Heaven forbid. That would be much too 
 self-conscious. What I said was from my point of view the 
 point of view of those who were young before the War really
 
 MILLIE AND PETER 111 
 
 young, with all their lives and their ambitions before them 
 and can never be young again in quite that way. I only 
 wanted to show you that knowing you and Henry has given 
 me a new reason for living and for enjoying life and a better 
 reason than I've ever had before. I know you distrusted me 
 and I want you to get over that distrust." 
 
 "If that's what you want/' Millie cried, jumping up and 
 smiling, "you can have it. I feel you're a real friend, both to 
 Henry and me, and we want a friend. Of course we're young 
 and just beginning. We shall make all kinds of mistakes, I 
 expect, and I'd rather you told us about them than any one 
 else." 
 
 "Would you really ?" He flushed slowly with pleasure. "And 
 will you tell me about mine too? Is that a bargain?" 
 
 "Well, I don't know about telling you of yours," she answered. 
 "I've noticed that that's a very dangerous thing. People ask 
 you to tell them and say they can stand anything, and then, 
 when the moment comes they are hurt for evermore. Nor do 
 they believe that those are their mistakes anything else but 
 not those. However, we'll try. Here's my hand on it." 
 
 He took her hand. She was so beautiful, with her colour a 
 little heightened by the excitement and amusement of their 
 talk, her slim straight figure, the honesty and nobility of her 
 eyes as they rested on his face, that, in spite of himself, his hand 
 trembled in hers. She felt that and was herself suddenly con- 
 fused. She withdrew her hand abruptly, and at that moment, 
 to her relief, Mary Cass came in. 
 
 She introduced them and they stood talking for a little, 
 talking about anything, hospitals, Ireland, the weather. Then 
 he went away. 
 
 "Who's that ?" said Mary when he was gone. 
 
 "A man called Westcott, a friend of Henry's." 
 
 "I like him. Whafs he do?" 
 
 "He's a writer " 
 
 "Oh, Lord!" Mary threw herself into a chair. "What a 
 pity. He looks as though he were better than that." 
 
 "He's a dear old thing," said Millie. "Just a hundred and 
 fifty years old."
 
 112 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 "Which means," said Mary, "that he's been telling you how 
 young you are." 
 
 "Aren't you clever?" said Millie admiringly. 
 
 "Whether I'm clever or no," said Mary, "I'm tired. This 
 chemistry " 
 
 And with that we leave them.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE LETTERS 
 
 HENRY was not such a fool as he looked. You, gentle 
 reader, have certainly by now remarked that you cannot 
 believe that all those years in the Army would have failed to 
 make him a trifle smarter and neater and better disciplined 
 than he appears to be. To which I would reply, having learnt 
 the fact through very bitter personal experience, that it is one 
 of the most astonishing facts in life that you do not change 
 with anything like the ease that you ought to. 
 
 That is of course only half the truth, but half the truth it 
 is, and if smuts choose your nose to settle on when you're in 
 your cradle, the probability is that they'll still be settling there 
 when you're in your second childhood. 
 
 Henry was changing underneath, as will very shortly, I hope, 
 be made plain, but the hard ugly truth that I am now com- 
 pelled to declare is that by the early days of June he had got 
 his Baronet's letters into such a devil of a mess that he did not 
 know where he was nor how he was ever going to get straight 
 again. Nevertheless, I must repeat once more he was not 
 such a fool as he looked. 
 
 During all these weeks his lord and master had not glanced 
 at them once. 
 
 He had indeed paid very little attention to Henry, giving 
 him no typewriting and only occasionally dictating to him very 
 slowly a letter or two. He had been away in the country once 
 for a week and had not taken Henry with him. 
 
 He had attempted no further personal advances, had been 
 always kindly but nevertheless aloof. Henry had, on his side, 
 made very few fresh discoveries. 
 
 He had met once or twice a brother, Tom Buncombe, a large, 
 fat, red-faced man with a loud laugh, carroty hair, a smell 
 
 113
 
 114 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 of whisky and a handsome appetite. Friends had come to 
 luncheon and Mr. Light-Johnson had been as constant and 
 pessimistic as ever, but Henry had not trusted himself to a 
 second outburst. Of his own private love-affair there is more to 
 be said, but of that presently. 
 
 The salient fact in the situation was that until now Dun- 
 combe had not mentioned the letters, had not looked at them, 
 had not apparently considered them. Every morning Henry, 
 with beating heart, expected those dread words : "Well now, let's 
 see what you've done" and every day passed without those 
 words being said. 
 
 Every night in his bed in Panton Street he told himself that 
 to-morrow he would force some order into the horrible things, 
 and every day he was once again defeated by them. He was now 
 quite certain that they led a life of their own, that they delib- 
 erately skipped, when he was not looking, out of one pile into 
 another, that they changed the dates on their pages and coun- 
 terfeited handwritings, and were altogether taunting him and 
 teasing him to the full strength of their yellow crooked little 
 souls. And yet behind the physical exterior of these letters 
 he knew that he was gaining a feeling for and a knowledge of 
 the period with which they dealt that was invaluable. He had 
 burrowed in the library and discovered a host of interesting 
 details books like Hogg's Reminiscences and Gibson's Recol- 
 lections, and Washington Irving's Abbotsford and Lang's Lock- 
 hart, and the Ballantyne Protests and the Life of Archibald 
 Constable them and many, many others he had devoured 
 with the greed of a shipwrecked mariner on a desert island. 
 He could tell you everything now about the Edinburgh of that 
 day the streets, the fashions, the clothes, the politics. It 
 seemed that he must, in an earlier incarnation, have lived there 
 with them all, possibly, he liked to fancy, as a second-hand 
 bookseller hidden somewhere in the intricacies of the Old Town. 
 He seemed to feel yet beating through his arteries the thrill 
 and happy pride when Sir Walter himself with his cheery 
 laugh, his joke and his kindly grip of the hand stood among 
 the dusky overhanging shelves and gossiped and yarned and 
 climbed the rickety ladder searching for some ballad or romance,
 
 THE LETTERS 115 
 
 while Henry, his eyes aflame with hero-worship, held that same 
 ladder and gazed upwards to that broad-shouldered form. 
 
 Yes but the letters were in the devil of a mess ! 
 
 And then suddenly the blow fell. One beautiful June morn- 
 ing, when the sun, refusing to be beaten by the thick glare of 
 the windows, was transforming the old books and sending mists 
 of gold and purple from ceiling to floor, Henry, his head bent 
 over files of the recalcitrant letters, heard the very words that 
 for weeks he had been expecting. 
 
 "Now then it's about time I had a look at those letters 
 of yours." 
 
 It is no exaggeration at all to say that young Henry's heart 
 stood absolutely still, his feet were suddenly like dead fish in 
 his boots and his hands weak as water. This, then, was The 
 End ! Oh, how he wished that it had occurred weeks ago ! 
 He had by now become devotedly attached to the library, 
 loved the books like friends, was happier when hidden in the 
 depths of the little gallery nosing after Bage and Maturin and 
 Clara Reeve than he had been in all his life before. Moreover,, 
 he realized in this agonizing moment how deeply attached he 
 had grown during these weeks to his angular master. Few 
 though the words between them had been, there seemed to him 
 to have developed mysteriously and subterraneously as it were 
 an unusual sympathy and warmth of feeling. That may have 
 been simply his affectionate nature and innocence of soul. 
 Nevertheless, there it was. He made a last frantic effort towards 
 a last discipline, juggling the letters together and trying to put 
 the more plainly dated next to one another on the top of the 
 little untidy heaps. 
 
 He realized that there was nothing to be done. He sat 
 there waiting for sentence to be pronounced. 
 
 Buncombe came over to the table and rested one hand on 
 Henry's shoulder. 
 
 "Now, let's see," he said. "You've had more than a month 
 I expect to find great progress. How many boxes have you 
 done?" 
 
 "I'm still at the first," said Henry, his voice low and gentle- 
 
 "Still at the first? Ah, well, I expect there are more than
 
 116 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 one knew. Whafs your system? First in months and ishen 
 in years, I suppose ?" 
 
 "The trouble is," said Henry, the words choking in his 
 throat, "that so many of them aren't dated at all." 
 
 "Yes that would be so. Well, here we have April, 1816. 
 What I should do, I think, is to make them into six-monthly 
 packets otherwise the Hullo, here's 1818 !" 
 
 "They move about so," said Henry feebly. 
 
 "Move about ? Nobody can move them if you don't March 
 7, 1818 ; March 12, 1818 ; April 3 Why, here we are back in 
 '16 again!" 
 
 There followed then the most dreadful pause. It seemed 
 to the agonized Henry to last positively for centuries. He 
 grew an old, old man with a long, white, sweeping beard, he 
 looked back over a vast, misspent lifetime, his hearing was gone, 
 his vision was dulled, he was tired, deadly tired, and longed 
 only for the gentle peace of the kindly grave. Not a word was 
 said. Buncombe's long white fingers moved with a deadly 
 and practised skill from packet to packet, taking up one, 
 looking at it, laying it down again, taking up another, holding 
 it for an eternity in his hand then carefully replacing it. 
 The clock wheezed and gurgled and chattered, the sunlight 
 danced on the bookshelves, Henry was in his grave, dead, buried, 
 a vague pathetic memory to those who once had loved him. 
 
 "Why!" a voice came from vast distances; "these letters 
 aren't arranged at all!" The worst was over, the doom had 
 fallen ; nothing more terrible could occur. 
 
 Henry said nothing. 
 
 "They simply aren't arranged at all!" came the voice more 
 sharply. 
 
 Still Henry said nothing. 
 
 Buncombe moved back into the room. Henry felt his eyes 
 burrowing into a hole, red-hot, in the middle of his back. He 
 did not move. 
 
 "Would you mind telling me what you have been doing 
 all these weeks?" 
 
 Henry turned round. The terrible thing was that tears 
 were not far away. He was twenty-six years of age, he had 
 fought in the Great War and been wounded, he had written
 
 THE LETTERS 117 
 
 ten chapters of a romantic novel, he was living a life of in- 
 dependent ease as a bachelor gentleman in Panton Street 
 nevertheless tears were not far away. 
 
 "I warned you/' he said. "I told you at the very beginning 
 that I was a perfect fool. You can't say I didn't warn you. 
 I've meant to do my very best. I've never before wanted to 
 
 do my best so badly I mean so well I mean " he broke 
 
 off. "I've tried," he ended. 
 
 "But would you mind telling me what you've tried?" asked 
 Buncombe. "The state the letters were in when they were 
 in this box was beautiful order compared with the state they're 
 in now! Why, you've had six weeks at them! What have 
 you been doing?" 
 
 "I think they move in the night," said Henry, tears bubbling 
 in his voice do what he could to prevent them. "I know that 
 must sound silly to you, or to any sensible person, but I swear 
 to you that I've had dozens of them in the right order when 
 I've gone away one day and found them in every kind of mess 
 when I've got back next morning." 
 
 Buncombe said nothing. 
 
 "Then," Henry went on, gathering a stronger control of 
 himself, "they really are confusing. Any one would find then? 
 so. The writing's often so faded and the signatures some- 
 times so illegible. And at first when I started I knew so 
 little about the period. I didn't know who any of the people- 
 were. I've been reading a lot lately and although it looks 
 so hopeless, I " Then he broke off. "But it's no good," he 
 muttered, turning his back. "I haven't got a well-ordered 
 mind. I never could do mathematics at school. I ought to 
 have told you, the second day I tried to tell you, but I've 
 liked it so, I've enjoyed it. I " 
 
 "I daresay you have enjoyed it," said Buncombe. "I can 
 well believe it. You must have had the happiest six weeks 
 of your life. Isn't it aggravating? Here are six weeks entirely 
 wasted." 
 
 "Please take back your money and let me go," said Henry, 
 "I can't pay you everything at once because, to tell you the 
 truth, I've spent it, but if you'll wait a little " 
 
 "Money!" cried Buncombe wrathfully. "Who's talking of
 
 118 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 money? Ifs the wasted time I mind. We're not an inch 
 further on." 
 
 "We are," cried Henry excitedly. "I've been taking notes 
 lots of them. I've got them in a book here. And whoever goes 
 on with this next can have them. He'll learn a lot from them, 
 he will really." 
 
 "Let's see your notes," said Buncombe. 
 
 Henry produced a red-bound exercise book. It was nearly 
 filled with his childish and sprawling hand. There were also 
 many blots, and even some farcical drawings in the margin. 
 
 Buncombe took the book and went back with it to his desk. 
 There followed a lengthy pause, while Henry stood in front 
 of his table staring at the window. 
 
 At last Buncombe said, "You certainly seem to have scrib- 
 bled a lot here. Yes ... I take back what I said about your 
 being idle. I'm glad you're not that. And you seem interested ; 
 you must be interested to have done all this." 
 
 "I am interested," said Henry. 
 
 "Well, then, I don't understand it. If you are interested 
 why couldn't you get something more out of the letters? A 
 child of eight could have done them better than you have." 
 
 "It's the kind of brain I have," said Henry. "It's always 
 been the same. I never could do examinations. I have an 
 untidy brain. I could always remember things about books 
 but never anything else. It was just the same in the War. 
 I always gave the wrong orders to the men. I never remem- 
 bered what I ought to say. But when they put me into In- 
 telligence and I could use my imagination a little, I wasn't 
 so bad. I can see Scott and Hogg and the others moving about, 
 and I can see Edinburgh and the way the shops go and every- 
 thing, but I can't do the mechanical part. I knew I couldn't 
 at the very beginning." 
 
 "You'd better go on working for a bit while I think about 
 it," said Buncombe. 
 
 Henry went back to the letters, a sick heavy weight of dis- 
 appointment in his heart. He could have no doubt concerning 
 the final judgment. How could it be otherwise? Well, at the 
 most he had had a beautiful six weeks. He had learnt some 
 very interesting things that he would never forget and that
 
 THE LETTERS 119 
 
 he could not have learnt in any other way. But how disappoint- 
 ing to lose his first job so quickly! How sad Millie would he 
 and how sarcastic his father ! And then the girl ! How could 
 he now entertain any hopes of doing anything for her when 
 he had no job, no money, no prospects ! . . . 
 
 A huge fat tear welled into his eye, he tried to gulp it back; 
 he was too late. It plopped down on one of the letters. Another 
 followed it. He sniffed and sniffed again. He took out his 
 handkerchief and blew his nose. He fought for self-control and, 
 after a hard sharp battle, gained the victory. The other tears 
 were defeated and reluctantly went back to the place whence 
 they had come. 
 
 The clock struck one; in five minutes' time the gong would 
 sound for luncheon. He heard Buncombe get up, cross the 
 floor; once again he felt his hand on his shoulder. 
 
 "You certainly have shown imagination here," he said. 
 "There are some remarkable things in this book. Not all of 
 it authentic, I fancy." The hand pressed into his shoulder 
 with a kindly emphasis. "It's a pity that order isn't your 
 strong point. Never mind. We must make the best of it. 
 We'll get one of those dried-up young clerks at so much an 
 hour to do this part of it. You shall do the rest. I think 
 you'll make rather a remarkable book of it." 
 
 "You're going to keep me?" Henry gulped. 
 
 "I'm going to keep you." Buncombe moved back to his 
 desk. "Now it's luncheon-time. I suggest that you wash 
 your hands and your face." 
 
 Henry stood for a moment irresolute. 
 
 "I don't know what to say I to thank " 
 
 "Well, don't," said Buncombe. "I hate being thanked. Be- 
 sides, there's no call for it." 
 
 The gong sounded. 
 
 This was an adventurous day for Henry; he discovered in 
 the first place that Buncombe would not himself be in to 
 luncheon, and he descended the cold stone stairs with the antici- 
 patory shiver that he always felt when his master deserted, 
 him. Lady Bell-Hall neither liked nor trusted him, and 
 showed her disapproval by showering little glances upon him,
 
 120 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 with looks of the kind that anxious hostesses bestow upon 
 nervous parlour-maids when the potatoes are going the wrong 
 way round or the sherry has been forgotten. Henry knew what 
 these glances said. They said: "Oh, young man, I cannot 
 conceive why my brother has chosen you for his secretary. 
 You are entirely unsuited for a secretary. You are rash, igno- 
 rant, bad-mannered and impetuous. If there is one thing in life 
 that I detest it is having some one near me whose words and 
 actions are for ever uncertain and not to be calculated before- 
 hand. I am never certain of you from one minute to another. 
 I do wish you would go away and take a post elsewhere/' 
 
 Because Henry knew that Lady Bell-Hall was thinking this 
 of him he was always in her presence twice as awkward as he 
 need have been, spilt his soup, crumbled his bread and made 
 strange sudden noises that were by himself entirely unexpected. 
 To-day, however, he was spared his worst trouble, Mr. 
 Light-Johnson. The only guests were Tom Buncombe and a 
 certain Lady Alicia Penrose, who exercised over Lady Bell- 
 Hall exactly the fascinated influence that a boa-constrictor has 
 for a rabbit. Alicia Penrose certainly resembled a boa-con- 
 strictor, being tall, swollen and writhing, bound, moreover, so 
 tightly about with brilliant clothing fitting her like a sheath 
 that it was always a miracle to Henry that she could move at 
 all. She must have been a lady of some fifty summers, but her 
 skirts were very short, coming only just below her knees. She 
 was a jolly and hearty woman, living entirely for Bridge and 
 food, and not pretending to do otherwise. Henry could not 
 understand why she should come so often to luncheon as she 
 did. He supposed that she enjoyed startling Lady Bell-Hall 
 with peeps into her pleasure-loving life, not that in her chatter 
 she ever paused to listen to her hostess's terrified little "Really, 
 Alicia !" or "You can't mean it, Alicia !" or "I never heard such 
 a thing never!" 
 
 After a while Henry arrived nearer the truth when he sup- 
 posed that she came in order to obtain a free meal, she being 
 in a state of chronic poverty and living in a small series of 
 attics over a mews. 
 
 She was, it seemed, related to every person of importance 
 and alluded to them all in a series of little nicknames that
 
 THE LETTEES 121 
 
 fell like meteors about table. "Podgy," "Old Cuddles/' 
 "Dusty Parker," "Fifi Bones," "Larry," "Bronx," "Traddles" 
 these were her familiar friends. When she was alone with 
 Henry, Duncombe and his sister she was comparatively quiet, 
 paying eager attention to her food (which was not very good) 
 and sometimes including Henry in the conversation. But the 
 presence of an outsider excited her terribly. She was, out- 
 wardly at any rate, as warmly excited about the domestic and 
 political situation as was Lady Bell-Hall, but it did not seem 
 to Henry that it went very deep. So long as her Bridge was 
 uninterfered with everything else might go. She talked in 
 short staccato sentences like a female Mr. Tingle. 
 
 To-day she was stirred by Tom Duncombe, not that she did 
 not know him well enough, he being very much more in her 
 set than were either his brother or sister. Henry had not liked 
 Tom Duncombe from the first and to-day he positively loathed 
 him. This was for a very simple human reason, namely, that 
 he talked as though he, Henry, did not exist, looking over his 
 head, and once, when Henry volunteered a comment on the 
 weather, not answering him at all. 
 
 And then when the meal was nearly over Henry most un- 
 fortunately fell yet again into Lady Bell-Hall's bad graces. 
 
 "Servants," Lady Alicia was saying. "Servants. Been in a 
 Registry Office all the morning. For father. He wants a foot- 
 man and doesn't want to pay much for him ; you know all about 
 father, Tommy." (The Earl of Water-Somerset was notoriously 
 mean). Offering sixty sixty for a footman. Did you hear 
 anything like it? Couldn't hear of a soul. All too damned 
 superior. Saw one or two never saw such men. All covered 
 with tattoo marks and war-ribbons extraordinary times we live 
 in. Extraordinary. Puffy Clerk told me yesterday remark- 
 able thing. Down at the Withers on Sunday. Sunday after- 
 noon. Short of a fourth. Found the second footman played. 
 Had him in. Perfect gentleman. Son of a butcher but had 
 been a Colonel in the War. Broke off to fetch in the tea 
 then sat down again afterwards. Best of the joke won twenty 
 quid off Addy Blake and next morning asked to have his wages 
 raised. Said if he was going to be asked to play bridge with
 
 122 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 the family must have higher wages. And Addy gave them 
 him." 
 
 Tom Buncombe guffawed. 
 
 "Dam funny. Dam funny," he said. Lady Bell-Hall shook 
 her head. "A friend of mine, a Mr. Light-Johnson I think 
 you've met him here, Alicia told me the other day he's got 
 a man now who plays on the piano beautifully and reads 
 Spanish. He says that we shall all be soon either killed in our 
 beds or working for the Bolsheviks. What the servants are 
 coming " 
 
 As the old butler brought in the coffee at this moment she 
 stopped and began hurriedly to talk about Conan Doyle's 
 seances which seemed to her very peculiar the pity of it was 
 that we couldn't really tell if it had happened just as he said. 
 "Of course he's been writing stories for years/' she said. "He's 
 the author of those detectives stories, Alicia and writing stories 
 for a long time must make one very regardless of the truth." 
 
 Then as the butler had retired they were able to continue. 
 "I don't know what servants are coming to," she said. "They 
 never want to go to church now as they used to." 
 
 It was then that Henry made his plunge, as unfortunate in 
 its impetuosity and tactlessness as had been his earlier one; 
 it was perhaps the red supercilious countenance of Tom Dun- 
 combe that drove him forward. 
 
 "Fm glad servants are going to have a better time now," 
 he said, leaning forward and staring at Alicia Penrose as though 
 fascinate'd by her bright colours. "I can't think how they en- 
 dured it in the old days before the War, in those awful attics 
 people used to put them into, the bad food they got and having 
 no time off and " 
 
 "Why, you're a regular young Bolshevik!" Alicia Penrose 
 cried, laughing. "Margaret, Charles got a Bolshevik for a 
 secretary. Who'd have thought it?" 
 
 "I'm not a Bolshevik," said Henry very red. "I want 
 everything to be fair for everybody all the way round. The 
 Bolsheviks aren't fair any more than the than the other 
 people used to be before the War, but it seems to me " 
 
 "Seen the Bradleys lately, Alicia?" said Tom Duncombe, 
 speaking exactly as though Henry existed less than his sister's
 
 THE LETTERS 123 
 
 dog, Pretty One, a nondescript mongrel asleep in a basket near 
 the window. 
 
 "No," said Alicia. "But that reminds me. Benjy Porker 
 owes me five quid off a game a fortnight ago at Addy Blake's. 
 Glad you've reminded me, Thomas. That young man wants 
 watching. Plays badly too why in that very game he had four 
 hearts " 
 
 Henry's cup was full. Why, again, had he spoken? When 
 would he learn the right words on the right occasion? Why 
 had he painted himself even blacker than before in Lady Bell- 
 Hall's sight? 
 
 He went up to the library hating Tom Buncombe, but hating 
 himself even more. 
 
 He sat down at his table determining to put in an hour at 
 such slave-driving over the letters as they had never known in 
 all their little lives. At four o'clock punctually he intended to 
 present himself in Mrs. Tenssen's sitting-room. 
 
 When he had been stirring the letters about for some ten 
 minutes or so the quiet and peace of the library once again 
 settled beautifully around him. It seemed to enfold him as 
 though it loved him and wished him to know it. Once again 
 the strange hallucination stole into his soul that the past was 
 the present and the present the past, that there was no time 
 nor place and that only thinking made it so, and that the only 
 reality, the only faith, the only purpose in this life or in any 
 other was love love of beauty, of character, of truth, love above 
 all of one human being for another. He was touched to an 
 almost emotional softness by Buncombe's action that morning. 
 Touched, too, to the very soul by his own love affair, and 
 touched finally to-day by the sense that he had that old books 
 in the library, and the times and the places and the people that 
 they stood for, were stretching out hands to him, trying to 
 make him hear their voices. 
 
 "Only love us enough and we shall live. Everything lives 
 by love. Touch us with some of your own enchantment. You 
 are calling us back to life by caring for us. . . ." He stopped, 
 his head up, his pen arrested, listening as though he did in very 
 truth hear voices coming to him from different parts of the 
 room.
 
 124 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 What he did hear, however, was the opening of the library 
 door, and what he beheld was Tom Buncombe's bulky figure 
 standing for a moment hesitating in the doorway. He came for- 
 ward but did not see Henry immediately. He stood again, 
 listening, one finger to his lip like a school-boy about to steal 
 jam. Henry bent his head over his letters, but with one eye 
 watched. All thoughts of love and tenderness were gone with 
 that entrance. He hated Tom Buncombe and hated him 
 for reasons more conclusive than personal, wounded vanity. 
 Buncombe took some further steps and then suddenly saw 
 Henry. He stopped dead, staring, then as Henry did not 
 turn, but stayed with head bent forward, he moved on again 
 still cautiously and with the clumsy hesitating step that was 
 especially his. 
 
 He arrived at his brother's table and stopped there. Henry, 
 looking sideways, could see half Buncombe's heavy body, the 
 red cheek, the thick arm and large, ill-shaped fingers. Those 
 same fingers, he perceived, were taking up letters and papers 
 from the table and putting them down again. 
 
 Then, like a sudden blow on the heart, certain words of Sir 
 Charles's spoken a week or two before came back to Henry. 
 "By the way, Trenchard," he had said, "if I'm out and you're 
 ever alone in the library here I want you to be especially care- 
 ful to allow no one to touch the papers on my table, nor to 
 permit any one to open a drawer any one, mind you, not 
 even my brother, unless I've told you first that he may. I 
 leave you in charge you or old Moffatt (the ancient butler), 
 and if you are going, and I'm not yet back, lock the library 
 and give the keys to Moffatt." 
 
 He had promised that at the time, feeling rather proud that 
 he should have been charged with so confidential an office. Now 
 the time had come for him to keep his word, and the most 
 difficult crisis of his life was suddenly upon him. There had 
 been difficult moments in the War Henry alone knew how 
 difficult moments of physical challenge, moments of moral chal- 
 lenge too but then in that desolate-hell-delivered country 
 thousands of others had been challenged at the same time, and 
 some especial courage seemed to have been given one with 
 special occasion. Here he was alone, and alone in an especially
 
 THE LETTEKS 125 
 
 arduous way. He did not know how much authority he really 
 had, he did not know whether Sir Charles had in truth meant 
 all that he had said, he did not know whether Tom Buncombe 
 had not after all some right to be there. 
 
 Above all he was young, very young, for his age, doubtful 
 of himself, fearing that he always struck a silly figure in any 
 crisis that he had to face. On the other hand, he was helped 
 by his real hatred of the red-flushed man at the table, unlike 
 his brother-in-law Philip in that, namely, that he did not want 
 every one to like him and, indeed, rather preferred to be hated 
 by the people whom he himself disliked. 
 
 Tom Buncombe was now pulling at one of the drawers of 
 the table. Henry stood up, feeling that the whole room was 
 singing about his ears. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," he said, smiling feebly, and knowing 
 that his voice was a ridiculous one. "But would you mind wait- 
 ing until Sir Charles comes in? I know he won't be long 
 he said he'd be back by three." 
 
 Buncombe moved away from the drawer and stared. 
 
 "Here/' he said. "Bo you know where my brother keeps 
 the key of this drawer? If so, hand it over." 
 
 "Yes, I do know," said Henry. (It was sufficiently obvious, 
 as the key was hanging on a string at the far corner of the 
 table.) "But I'm afraid I can't give it you. Sir Charles told 
 me that no one was to have it while he was away." 
 
 Buncombe took in this piece of intelligence very slowly. 
 He stared at Henry as though he were some curious and 
 noxious kind of animal that had just crawled in from under 
 the window. A purple flush suffused his forehead and nose. 
 
 "Good God!" he said. "The infernal cheek!" 
 
 They stood silently staring at one another for a moment, 
 then Buncombe said: 
 
 "None of your lip, young man. I don't know who the devil 
 you think you are anyway hand over the key." 
 
 "No," said Henry paling, "I can't." 
 
 "You can't? What the devil do you mean?" 
 
 "Simply I can't. I was told not to I'm your brother's 
 secretary and have to do what he says not what you say !" 
 
 Henry felt himself growing more happily defiant.
 
 126 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 "Do you want to get the damnedest hiding you've ever had 
 in your young life?" 
 
 "I don't care what you do." 
 
 "Don't care what I do? Well, you soon will. Are you 
 going to give me that key?" (All this time he was pulling 
 at the drawers with angry jerks, pausing to stare at Henry, then 
 pulling again.) 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You're not? You know I can get my brother to kick you 
 out?" 
 
 "I don't care. I'm going to do what he said." 
 
 "You bloody young fool, he never said you weren't to let me 
 have it." 
 
 "I may have misunderstood him. If I did, he'll put it right 
 when he comes back." 
 
 "Yes, and a nice story I'll tell him of your damned im- 
 pertinence. Give me that key." 
 
 "Sorry I can't." 
 
 "I'll break your bloody neck." 
 
 "That won't help you to find the key." Henry was feeling 
 quite cheerful now. 
 
 "Christ! . . . You shall get it for that!" 
 
 He made two steps to come round the table to get at Henry 
 and saw the key. At the same instant Henry saw that he saw 
 it. He ran forward to secure it, and in a second they were 
 struggling together like two small boys in a manner un- 
 lovely, unscientific, even ludicrous. Ludicrous had there been 
 an observer, but for the fighters themselves it was one of those 
 uncomfortable struggles when there are no rules of the game 
 and anything may happen at any moment. Duncombe was 
 large but fat and in the worst possible condition, with a large 
 luncheon still unsettled and in a roving state. Moreover he 
 had never been a fighter. Henry was not a fighter either and 
 was handicapped at once because at the first onset his pince- 
 nex were knocked on to the carpet. He fought then blindly 
 in a blind world. He knew that Duncombe was kicking, and 
 struggling to strike at him with his fists. Himself seemed 
 strangely involved in Duncombe's chest, at which he tore with 
 his hands, while he bent his head to avoid the blows. He was
 
 THE LETTEKS 127 
 
 breathing desperately, while there was such anger seething in 
 his breast as he had never felt for anything human or inhuman 
 in all his life. He felt Buncombe's waistcoat tear, plunged 
 at the shirt, and at once his fingers felt the bare flesh, the soft 
 fat of Buncombe's well-tended body. He was also conscious 
 that he was muttering "You beast, you beast, you beast!" that 
 his left leg was aching terribly and that Buncombe had his 
 hand now firmly fixed in his hair and was pulling with all his 
 strength. 
 
 Henry was going. . . . He was being pushed backwards. He 
 caught a large fold of Buncombe's fat between his fingers and 
 pinched. Then he was conscious that in another moment he 
 would be over ; he was falling, the ceiling, far away, beat down 
 toward him, his left arm shot out and his fingers fastened 
 themselves into Buncombe's posterior, which was large and 
 soft, then, with a cry he fell, Buncombe on top of him. 
 
 Henry, half-stunned, lay, his leg crushed under him, his 
 eyes closed, and waited for the end. Buncombe now could do 
 what he liked to him, and what he liked would be something 
 horrible. But Buncombe also, it seemed, could not stir, but 
 lay there all over Henry, heaving up and down, the sweat from 
 his cheek and forehead trickling into Henry's eyes, his breath 
 coming in great desperate pants. 
 
 Then from a long way off came a voice: 
 
 "Tom Trenchard. What the devil!" That voice seemed 
 to electrify Buncombe. Henry felt the whole body quiver, 
 stiffen for a moment, then slowly, very slowly raise itself. 
 
 Henry stumbled up and saw Sir Charles, not regarding him 
 at all, but fixing his eyes only upon his brother, who stood, 
 his hair on end, his shirt torn and exposing a red, hairy chest, 
 wrath in his eyes, his mouth trembling with anger and also 
 with some other emotion. 
 
 "What have you been doing, Tom?" 
 
 "This damned " then to Henry's immense surprise he 
 
 broke off and left the room almost at a run. 
 
 Sir Charles went straight to his table, looked at the papers, 
 glanced at the drawers, then finally at the key, which was still 
 on the hook.
 
 128 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 His voice, when he spoke, was that of the saddest, loneliest, 
 most miserable of men. 
 
 "You'd better go and clean up, Henry," he said, pointing to 
 the farther room. 
 
 He had never called him Henry before.
 
 CHAPTEK IV 
 
 THE CAULDRON 
 
 BUT the day had not finished with Henry yet. 
 When he had washed and tidied himself he discovered to his 
 great relief that his pince-nez were not broken, and that only 
 one button (and that an unimportant one) was torn from his 
 trousers, and he departed. Sir Charles asked him no questions, 
 but only sat there at his table, staring at his paper with a 
 fixed look of melancholy absorption that Henry dared not break. 
 As no questions were asked Henry offered no explanations. 
 He was very glad that he had not to offer any. He simply said, 
 "Good afternoon, sir/' and went. He was half expecting that 
 Tom Buncombe would be hiding behind some pillar in the 
 hall, and would spring out upon him as he passed, but there 
 was no sign of anybody. The house was as silent and dead as 
 the Nether Tomb. 
 
 He walked through the crowded ways to Peter Street in a 
 fine turmoil of excitement and agitation. The physical side 
 of the struggle was not yet forgotten; his shins, where Tom 
 Duncombe had kicked him, were very sore indeed, and his leg 
 would suddenly tremble for no particular reason. 
 
 His chest was sore and his head ached, from his enemy's 
 vigorous hair-pulling. He was very thankful that his face was 
 not marked. That was because he had held his head down. 
 But the physical consequences were lost in consideration of 
 the deeper, more important spiritual and material issues. What 
 had Tom Duncombe really been after? Plainly enough some- 
 thing that he had been after before. One could tell that from 
 his brother's silence. What revenge would Tom now try to 
 take upon Henry? Perhaps he would bribe Mr. King to mur- 
 der him in his sleep, or would send Henry poison in a box of 
 chocolates, or would distil fly-paper into his coffee as Seddon 
 
 129
 
 130 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 had done to poor Miss Barrow? Perhaps he would have him 
 assassinated by some Bolshevik agent, in the middle of Pic- 
 cadilly? No, all these things, delightful though they sounded, 
 were not likely Tom Buncombe was obviously lacking in 
 imagination. 
 
 A beautiful vers libre flew like a coloured dove into Henry's 
 brain just as he crossed the Circus : 
 
 Eed-chested Minotaur 
 
 Thrust 
 
 Blow on Blow. 
 Golden apples showering 
 From Autumn trees 
 In wolf-haunted 
 
 Forest 
 
 Had he not been sworn at by the driver of a swiftly advanc- 
 ing taxi-cab he might have thought of a second verse equally 
 good. 
 
 Arriving at his destination, he found Mrs. Tenssen all alone 
 seated at the table playing Patience, with a pack of very 
 greasy cards. One useful lesson at least Henry was to learn 
 from this eventful year, a lesson that would do him splendid 
 service throughout his life namely, that there is nothing more 
 difficult than to discover a human being, man or woman, who 
 is really wicked all the way round and the whole way through. 
 People who seem to be thoroughly wicked, whom one pas- 
 sionately desires to be thoroughly wicked, will suddenly betray 
 kindnesses, softnesses, amiabilities, imbecilities that simply do 
 not go with the rest of their terrible character. This is very 
 sad and makes life much more difficult than it ought to be. 
 
 It is indeed to be doubted whether a completely wicked 
 human being has ever appeared on this planet. 
 
 It had already puzzled Henry on several occasions that Mrs. 
 Tenssen, who as nearly resembled a completely wicked person 
 as he had ever beheld, should care so passionately for the simple 
 game of Patience, and should take flowers, as he discovered that 
 she did, once a week to the Children's Hospital in Cleseden 
 Street. 
 
 He would so greatly have preferred that she should not do
 
 THE CAULDRON" 131 
 
 these things. She did them, it might be, as a blind, a con- 
 cealment, an alibi, even as Count Fosco had his white mice 
 and Uncle Silas played the flute, but they did not appear to be 
 a disguise; she seemed to enjoy doing them. 
 
 She greeted Henry with great affection. She had been very 
 kind to him of late. He did not like her any better than on 
 his first vision of her ; he liked her indeed far less. He did not 
 know any one, man or woman, from whom sex so indecently 
 protruded. It was always as though she sat quite naked in 
 front of him and that she liked it to be so. 
 
 She had once made what even his innocent mind understood 
 as improper advances to him, and he had not now the very 
 slightest doubt of the reason why the various gentlemen, of 
 all sizes and ages, came and had "tea with her. 
 
 All this made him very sick and put him into an agony of 
 desire to seize Christina and deliver her from the horrible place, 
 but until now he had not thought of any plan, and one of his 
 principal difficulties was that he could never succeed in being 
 with Christina alone. 
 
 He realized that Mrs. Tenssen had not as yet sufficiently 
 made up her wicked mind about him. She was hesitating, he 
 perceived, as to whether he was worth her while or no. He 
 had no doubt but that she had been making inquiries about 
 him and his family. Was she speculating about him as a 
 husband for her daughter? Or had she some other plans in 
 her evil head? 
 
 To-day the room was close and stuffy and dingy in spite of 
 the pink silk. There was a smell of cooking that writhed in 
 and out of the furniture, some evil, but savoury mess that was 
 onions and yet not onions at all, here black pudding, and there 
 stewing eels, once ducks' eggs and then again sheeps' brains 
 just such a savoury mess as any witch would have stewing in 
 her cauldron. 
 
 Mrs. Tenssen, on this afternoon, proceeded to deliver her- 
 self of some of her thoughts, her large face crimson above her 
 purple dress, her rings flashing over the shabby dog-eared cards. 
 Henry sat there, his eyes on the door, listening, listening for the 
 step that he would give all the world to hear. 
 
 "You know," she said, cursing through her teeth at the bad
 
 132 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 order of the cards, "the matter with me is that I'm too 
 good-natured. I've got a kind heart that's the matter with 
 me. I'm sorry for it. I'm a fool to let myself go as I do. 
 And what have I ever got for my kindness damn that club. 
 What but ingratitude and cheating. If s the way of the world. 
 You're young. You just remember that. Don't let your heart 
 go. Use your intelligence." 
 
 "What," asked Henry who wished to discover from her some- 
 thing about Christina's earlier life, "kind of a town is Copen- 
 hagen? How did you like Denmark?" 
 
 "Ugh !" said Mrs. Tenssen. "I'm an Englishwoman, I am 
 born in Bristol and bred there, thank God. None of your bloody 
 foreign countries for me. Twenty years of my life wasted in 
 that stinking hole. Not that my husband was so bad not as 
 husbands go that is. He was a sailor and away many a time, 
 and a good thing too. Fine upstanding man he was with yellow 
 curls and a chest broad enough to put a table on. He'd smack 
 my ass and say, "There's a woman for you !" and so I was and 
 am still for the matter of that." 
 
 "Was Christina your only child," asked Henry. 
 
 "Yes. What do you take me for? No more children for me 
 after the first one. 'No/ I said to David. 'Behave as you 
 like,' I said, 'but no more children for me.' Wouldn't have 
 had that one if I hadn't been such a blighted young fool. 
 What's life for if you're lying up all the time ? But David was 
 all right. Drowned at sea. I always told him he would be." 
 
 "Well, then, why weren't you happy?" 
 
 "Happy," she echoed. "I tell you Copenhagen's a stinking 
 town. Dirty little place. And his relations ! There was a 
 crew for you, especially a damned brother of his with a long 1 
 beard, like a goat who was always round interfering. Didn't 
 want me to have any gentlemen friends. 'Oh you go to hell,' 
 I said. 'I'll have what friends I damn well please.' Wanted 
 to take my girl away from me. There's a nice thing! When 
 a woman's a widow and all alone in the world and doing all 
 she can for her girl, for a bloody relation to come along and 
 try to take her away." 
 
 "What did he want to take her away for?" asked Henry. 
 
 "How the hell should I know? That's what I asked him.
 
 THE CAULDKON 133 
 
 'What do you want to take her away for?' I asked him. He 
 called me dirty names, then, so I just called dirty names back. 
 Two can play at that game. I hadn't been educated in Bristol 
 for nothing. Then they went on interfering, so I just brought 
 her over here." 
 
 Henry was longing to ask some more questions when the 
 door opened and Christina came in. 
 
 "Well, deary," said her mother. "Here's Mr. Trenchard." 
 Christina smiled, then stood there uncertainly. 
 
 "There's a man coming upstairs, mother, who said you'd 
 asked him to call. He wouldn't give his name." 
 
 Steps were outside. There was a pause, a knock on the door. 
 Mrs. Tenssen looked at them both uncertainly. 
 
 "What do you say to taking Christina out to tea, Mr. 
 Trenchard ? It won't do her any harm ?" 
 
 Henry said he would be delighted, as for sure he would. 
 
 "Well, then, suppose you do some nice tea-shop. I know 
 you'll look after her." 
 
 The girl moved to the door. Henry opened it for her. On 
 the other side was standing a large heavy man, some country- 
 fellow he seemed, young, brown-faced, in rough blue clothes. 
 
 Christina slipped by, her head down. In the street Henry 
 found her crying. He didn't speak to her or ask her any ques- 
 tions. In silence they went down Peter Street. 
 
 When they were in Shaftesbury Avenue, Henry said, very 
 gently: 
 
 "Where would you like to have tea ? I'd want to take you to 
 the grandest place there is if you'd care for that." 
 
 She shook her head. "No no, nowhere grand. . . ." She 
 paused, standing still and looking about her as though she were 
 utterly lost. Then he saw her, with a great effort, drag herself 
 together. "There's a little place in Dean Street," she said. 
 "A little Spanish restaurant opposite the theatre." 
 
 He had been there several times to have a Spanish omelette 
 which was cheap and very good. The kind little manager was 
 a friend of his. He took her there wondering that he was not 
 more triumphant on this, the first occasion when he had been 
 alone with her in the outside world but he could not be 
 triumphant when she was so unhappy.
 
 134 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 He found, as he had hoped he would, a little deserted table in 
 the window shut off from the rest of the room by the door. 
 It was very private with the light evening sunlight beyond 
 the glass and people passing to and fro, and a little queue of 
 men and women already beginning to form outside the pit door 
 of the Royalty Theatre. The little manager brought them their 
 tea and smiled and made little chirping noises and left them 
 to themselves. 
 
 She was in great distress, not noticing her tea, staring in 
 front of her as Henry had often seen her unconsciously do 
 before, rolling her handkerchief between her hands into a little 
 wet ball. 
 
 "I wanted us to come. I'm glad we've had the chance. I've 
 been wanting for weeks to explain something to you." Henry 
 poured her tea out for her and mechanically, still staring be- 
 yond him, beyond the shop, beyond London, she drank it. 
 
 "You've been very good these months, very very good. I 
 don't know why, because you didn't know me before, nor any- 
 thing about me. One day I laughed at you and I'm sorry for 
 that. You are not to be laughed at you have not that char- 
 acter not at all anywhere." 
 
 She paused, and Henry, looking into her face, said : 
 
 "I haven't been good to you. I'm ashamed because these 
 weeks have all gone by and I haven't helped you yet. But you 
 needn't say why do I come and why am I your friend. I love 
 you. I loved you the first moment I saw you in Piccadilly. 
 I've never loved anybody before and I feel now as though I 
 shall never love anybody again. But I will do anything for 
 you, or go anywhere. You only have to say and I will try and 
 do that." 
 
 Her gaze came inwards, leaving those wide unscaleable hori- 
 zons whither she had gone and travelling back to the simple 
 untidy face of Henry whose eyes at any rate were good enough 
 for you to be quite sure that he meant honestly all that he 
 said. "That's it," she said quickly. "That's what I must try 
 to explain to you. I've wanted to say to you before that per- 
 haps I have made you think what isn't true. I like you. You're 
 the only friend I've had since I came to England. But I 
 can't love you, you dear good boy, nor I can't love anybody.
 
 THE CAULDKOtf 135 
 
 I will not forget you if I can once get out of this horrible 
 place, but I have no thoughts of love not for any one until 
 I can come home again. 
 
 "You saw me crying just now. I should not cry; my father 
 used to say, 'Christina, always be strong and not show them 
 you're weak/ but I cry, not from weakness, but from deep, deep 
 shame at that woman and what you see in her house." 
 
 She suddenly took his hand. "You are not angry because 
 I don't love you? You see, I have only one thought to get 
 home, to get home, to get home!" 
 
 Henry choked in his throat and could only stare back at her 
 and try to smile. 
 
 "Well, then," she said smiling. "Now I will try to tell 
 you how I am. That woman that horrible woman whom 
 they call my mother, and I too, to my shame, call her so 
 she was the wife of my father. From my birth she was cruel 
 to me, she always hated me. When my father was at home she 
 could not touch me he would not allow her but when he 
 was at sea then she could do what she wished. My father was 
 a hero, he was the finest of all Danish men, and when a Dane is 
 fine no one in the world is as fine as he. He loved me and I 
 loved him. Every one must love him, how he sang and danced 
 and played like a child! After a time he hated the woman 
 he'd married, because she was cruel, and he would have taken 
 me away with him on his ship, but of course he could not. 
 And then father was drowned one night I knew it. I saw him. 
 He came to my bed and smiled at me and he was all dripping 
 with water. Then that woman was terrible to me, and my 
 two uncles, father's brothers, who were almost as fine as he, 
 tried to take me away, but she was too quick for them. And 
 when they quarrelled with her, she ran away in the night and 
 brought me over here." 
 
 Henry sighed in sympathy with her. 
 
 "Yes, and here it is terrible. I do not think I can endure 
 it very much more. My uncle wrote and said he would come 
 for me, and that is why I have been waiting, because I am sure 
 that he will come. 
 
 "But now I think that woman is planning something else. 
 She wants to sell me to some man so that she herself can be
 
 136 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 free. She is in doubt about several. That old man you saw 
 the other day is one. He is very rich, and has a castle. Then 
 she has been for some while in doubt about whether perhaps 
 you will do. I don't care for it when she beats me, and when 
 she says terrible things to me, but it is the fear of the future, 
 and she may do worse than she has ever done she threatens 
 . . . and when I am alone at night often all night I am so 
 afraid. ..." 
 
 "Alone?" said Henry. "Isn't she there?" 
 
 "She has another place somewhere in Victoria Street. Often 
 she is away all night." 
 
 "Then," said Henry eagerly, "it's quite easy. We'll escape 
 one night. I can get enough money together and I will travel 
 with you to Copenhagen and give you to your uncle." 
 
 She shook her head. "No. You are a sweet boy, but that is 
 no good. She has the place always watched. The police would 
 stop us at once. She is a very clever woman." 
 
 "But then," pursued Henry, "if that house in Peter Street 
 is a bad house, and she is keeping you, that is against the law, 
 and we can have her arrested." 
 
 Christina shook her head. 
 
 "No. She is a very clever woman indeed. Nothing wrong 
 goes on there. Perhaps in Victoria Street. I don't know. 
 I have never been there. Buf I am sure if you tried to catch 
 her in Victoria Street you would not be able to. There is noth- 
 ing to be done that way. But see ... " 
 
 She leant over towards Henry across the table, dropping her 
 voice. 
 
 "Next December I shall be twenty-one and shall be free. It 
 is before that that I am afraid. I know she is making some 
 plan in her head. But I feel that you are watching, then I 
 shall be safer. She wants to get a lot of money for me, and I 
 think perhaps that old Mr. Leishman whom you saw is arrang- 
 ing something with her. 
 
 "What you want to do is to be friends with her so long as you 
 can, so that you may come to us freely. But one day she will 
 have made up her mind, and then there will be a scene, and she 
 will forbid you the house. After that watch every day in The 
 Times in the personal part. I will let you know when it is
 
 THE CAULDRON 137 
 
 serious. I will try to tell you where I have gone. If I do 
 that, it will mean that it is very anxious, and you must help 
 me any way you can. Will you promise me?" 
 
 "I promise," said Henry. "Wherever I am, whatever I am 
 doing, I will come." 
 
 "I have written to my uncle and I know he will come if he 
 can. But he travels very much abroad, and my other uncle 
 is in Japan. If they do not get any letter, I have no one 
 no one but you." 
 
 She took Henry's hand again. "Since father died I can't 
 love any one," she said. "But I can be your friend and never 
 forget you. I have been so long frightened now, and I am so 
 tired and so ashamed, that I think all deeper feeling is dead. 
 
 "I only want to get home. Do you understand, and not 
 flunk me false?" 
 
 Henry said, "I'm just as proud as I can be." 
 
 Then, saying very little, he took her back to Peter Street.
 
 CHAPTEE V 
 
 MILLIE IN LOVE 
 
 MEANWHILE, as Henry was having his adventures, so, 
 also was Millie having hers, and having them, even as 
 Henry did, in a sudden climacteric moment after many weeks 
 of ominous pause. 
 
 She knew well enough that that pause was ominous. It would 
 have been difficult for her to avoid knowing it. The situation 
 began to develop directly after the amateur performance of The 
 Importance of Being Earnest. That same performance was 
 a terrible and disgracefully public failure. It had been ar- 
 ranged originally with the outward and visible purpose of bene- 
 fiting a Babies' Creche that had its home somewhere in Maida 
 Vale, and had never yet apparently been seen by mortal man. 
 Clarice, however, cared little either for babies or the creches 
 that contain them, but was quite simply and undisguisedly 
 aching to prove to the world in general that she was a better 
 actress than Miss Irene Vanbrugh, the creator of her part. 
 
 The charity and kindliness of an audience at an amateur 
 theatrical performance are always called upon to cover a multi- 
 tude of sins, but, perhaps, never before in the history of amateur 
 acting did quite so many sins need covering as on this occasion 
 sins of omission, sins of commission, and sins of bad temper 
 and sulkiness. Clarice knew her part only at happy intervals, 
 but young Mr. Baxter knew his not at all, and tried to conceal 
 his ignorance with cheery smiles and impromptu remarks about 
 the weather, and little paradoxes that were in his own opinion 
 every bit as good as Oscar Wilde's, with the additional advan- 
 tage of novelty. Mr. Baxter was, indeed, at the end of the 
 performance thoroughly pleased with himself and the world in 
 general, and was the only actor in the cast who could boast of 
 that happy condition. 
 
 138
 
 MILLIE IN LOVE 139 
 
 Next morning in the house of the Platts the storm broke, 
 and Millie found, to her bewildered amazement, that she was, 
 in one way and another, considered the villainness of the piece. 
 That morning was never to be forgotten by Millie. 
 
 She was not altogether surprised that there should be a 
 storm. For many days past the situation had been extremely 
 difficult; only four days earlier, indeed, she had -wondered 
 whether she could possibly endure it any longer, and might have 
 gone straight to Victoria and resigned her post had she not had 
 five minutes' encouraging conversation with little Doctor 
 Brooker, who had persuaded her that she was doing valuable 
 work and must remain. There were troubles with Clarice, 
 troubles with Ellen (very curious ones), troubles with Victoria, 
 troubles with the housekeeper, even troubles with Beppo. All 
 the attendant guests in the house (except the poor Balaclavas) 
 looked upon her with hatred because they knew that she despised 
 them for their sycophancy and that they deserved her scorn. 
 Her troubles with Victoria were the worst, because after all did 
 Victoria support her nothing else very seriously mattered. But 
 Victoria, like all weak characters determined upon power, 
 swayed like a tree in the wind, now hither now thither, accord- 
 ing to the emotions of the moment. She told Millie that she 
 loved her devotedly, then suddenly would her mild eyes narrow 
 with suspicion when she heard Millie commanding Beppo to 
 bring up some more coal with what seemed to her a voice of 
 too incisive authority. She said to Millie that the duty of the 
 secretary was to control the servants, and then when the house- 
 keeper came with bitter tales of that same secretary's autocracy 
 &he sided with the housekeeper. She* thought Clarice a fool, 
 but listened with readiness to everything that Clarice had to 
 say about "upstart impertinence," "a spy in the house," and 
 so on. She had by this time conceived a hatred and a loathing 
 for Mr. Block and longed to transfer him to some very distant 
 continent, but when he came to her with tears in his eyes and 
 said that he would never eat another roll of bread in a house 
 where he was so looked down upon by "the lady secretary," 
 she assured him that Millie was of no importance, and begged 
 him to continue to break bread with her so long as there was 
 bread in the house.
 
 140 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 She complained with bitterness of the confusion of her 
 correspondence and admired enthusiastically the order and dis- 
 cipline into which Millie had brought it, and yet, from an ap- 
 parently wilful perverseness, she created further confusion 
 whenever she could, tumbling letters and bills and invitations 
 together, and playing a kind of drawing-room football with her 
 papers as though Dr. Brooker had told her that this was one 
 of the ways of warding off stoutness. 
 
 This question of her stoutness was one of Millie's most per- 
 manent troubles. Victoria now had "Stoutness on the Brain/' 
 a disease that never afflicted her at all in the old days when she 
 was poor, partly because she had too much work in those days 
 to allow time for idle thinking, and partly because she had no 
 money to spend on cures. 
 
 Now one cure followed upon another. She tried various sys- 
 tems of diet but, being a greedy woman and loving sweet and 
 greasy foods, a grilled chop and an "asbestos" biscuit were real 
 agony to her. Then, for a time, she stripped to the skin twice 
 a day and begged Millie to roll her upon the floor, a perform- 
 ance that Millie positively detested. She weighed herself sol- 
 emnly every morning and evening and her temper was spoilt 
 for the day when she had not lost but had indeed gained. 
 
 It must not be supposed, however, that she was always 
 irritable and in evil temper. Far from it; between her gusts 
 of despair, anger and assaulted pride she was very sweet indeed, 
 assuring Millie that she was a wicked woman and deserved no 
 mercy from any one. 
 
 "I cannot think how you can endure me, my Millie/' she 
 would say. "You sweet creature! Wonderful girl! What I've 
 done without you all these years I cannot imagine. I mean well. 
 I do indeed. I'm sure there isn't a woman in the country who 
 wants every one to be happy as I do. How simple it seems! 
 Happiness ! What a lovely word and yet how difficult of attain- 
 ment! Life isn't nearly as simple as it was in the days when 
 dear Papa was alive. I'm sure when I had nothing at all in the 
 bank and didn't dare to face kind Mr. Miller for days together 
 because I knew that I had had more money out of his bank than 
 I had ever put into it, life was simplicity but now what do
 
 MILLIE IN LOVE 141 
 
 you think is the matter with me, my Millie ? Tell me truthfully, 
 straight from your loyal heart." 
 
 Millie longed to tell her that what was the matter could 
 all be found in that one word "Money !" but the time for direct 
 and honest speech, woman to woman, was not quite yet, although 
 it was, most surely, close at hand. 
 
 With Ellen the trouble was more mysterious Millie did not 
 understand that strange woman. After the scene in Ellen's 
 room for many days she held aloof, not speaking to Millie at all. 
 Then gradually she approached again, and one morning came 
 into the room where Millie was working, walked up to her 
 desk, bent over her and kissed her passionately and walked 
 straight out of the room again without uttering a word. A few 
 days later she mysteriously pressed a note into her hand. This 
 was what it said : 
 
 DARLING MILLIE You must forgive any oddness of behaviour 
 that I have shown during these last weeks. I have had one head- 
 ache after another and have been very miserable too for other 
 reasons with which I need not bother you. I know you think me 
 strange, but indeed you have no more devoted friend than I if 
 only you would believe it. Some may seem friends to you but 
 are not really. Do not take every one at their face value. It is 
 sweet of you to do so but you run great risks. Could we not be a 
 little more together than we are? I should like it so much if we 
 could one day have a walk together. I feel that you do not un- 
 derstand me, and it is true that I am not at my best in this un- 
 sympathetic household. I feel that you shrink from me sometimes. 
 If I occasionally appear demonstrative it is because I have so much 
 love in my nature that has no outlet. I am a lonely woman, Millie. 
 You have my heart in your hands. Treat it gently ! Your loving 
 friend, ELLEN PLATT. 
 
 This letter irritated and annoyed Millie. Her hands were 
 full enough already without having Ellen's heart added to every- 
 thing else. And why need Ellen be so mysterious, warning her 
 about people? That was underhand. Did she suspect anybody 
 she should speak out. Millie walked about cautiously for the 
 next few days lest she should find herself alone with Ellen, 
 when the woman looked so miserable that her heart was touched, 
 and one morning, meeting her in the hall, she said:
 
 142 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 "It was kind of you to write that note, Ellen. Of course 
 we'll have a walk one day." 
 
 Ellen stared at her under furious eyebrows. "If that's all 
 you can say," she exclaimed, "thank you for nothing. Catch 
 me giving myself away again," and brushed angrily past 
 her. . . . 
 
 So on the morning after the theatricals down came the storm. 
 It began with the housekeeper, Mrs. Martin. Sitting under 
 Eve Millie examined the household books for the last fortnight. 
 
 "The butcher's very large," she observed. 
 
 "Honk!" Mrs. Martin remarked from some unprobed depths 
 of an outraged woman. She was a little creature with an up- 
 turned nose and a grey complexion. 
 
 "Well it really is too large this time," said Millie. "Twenty 
 pounds for a fortnight even in these days " 
 
 "Certingly," said Mrs. Martin, speaking very quickly and 
 rising a little on her toes. "Certingly if I'm charged with dis- 
 honesty, and it's implied that I'm stealing the butcher's meat 
 and deceiving my mistress, who has always, so far as / know, 
 trusted me and found no fault at all and has indeed commented 
 not once nor twice on my being economical, but if so, well my 
 notice is the thing that's wanted, I suppose, and " 
 
 "Not at all," said Millie, still very gently. "There's no 
 question of any one's dishonesty, Mrs. Martin. As you're house- 
 keeper as well as cook you must know better than any one else 
 whether this is an unusual amount or no. Perhaps it isn't. 
 Perhaps " 
 
 "I may have my faults," Mrs. Martin broke in, "there's few 
 of us who haven't, but dishonesty I've never before been ac- 
 cused of; although the times are difficult and those who don't 
 have to buy the things themselves may imagine that meat costs 
 nothing, and you can have a joint every quarter of an hour 
 without having to pay for it, still that hasn't been my experience, 
 and to be called a dishonest woman after all my troubles and 
 the things I've been through " 
 
 "I never did call you a dishonest woman," said Millie. 
 "Never for a moment. I only want you to examine this book 
 with me and see whether we can't bring it down a little " 
 
 "Dishonesty," pursued Mrs. Martin, rising still higher on
 
 MILLIE IN LOVE 143 
 
 her toes and apparently addressing Eve, "is dishonesty and 
 there's no way out of it, either one's dishonest or one isn't and 
 if one is dishonest the sooner one leaves and finds a place 
 where one isn't the better for all parties and the least said the 
 sooner mended " 
 
 "Would you mind," said Millie with an admirable patience, 
 "just casting your eye over this book and telling me what you 
 think of it ? That's all I want really." 
 
 "Then I hope, Miss," said Mrs. Martin, "that you'll take 
 back your accusation that I shouldn't like to go back to the 
 kitchen suffering under, because I never have suffered patiently 
 under such an accusation and I never will." 
 
 "I made no accusation," said Millie. "If I hurt your feel- 
 ings I'm sorry, but do please let us get to work and look at this 
 book together. Time's short and there's so much to be done." 
 
 But Mrs. Martin was a woman of one idea at a time. "If 
 you doubt my character, Miss, please speak to Miss Platt about 
 it, and if she has a complaint well and good and I'll take her 
 word for it, she having known me a good deal longer than many 
 people and not one to rush to conclusions as some are perhaps 
 with justice and perhaps not." 
 
 Upon this particular morning Millie was to lose her temper 
 upon three separate occasions. This was the first occasion. 
 
 "That's enough, Mrs. Martin/' she said sharply. "I did not 
 call you dishonest. I do not now. But as you seem incapable 
 of looking at this book I will show it to Miss Platt and she shall 
 discuss it with you. That's everything, thank you, good morn- 
 ing." 
 
 "Honk!" said Mrs. Martin. "Then if that's the way I'm 
 to be treated the only thing that's left for me to do is hand in 
 my notice which I do with the greatest of pleasure, and until 
 you came, Miss, I should never have dreamt of such a thing, 
 being well suited, but such treatment no human being can 
 stand!" 
 
 "Very well then," said Millie, cold with anger. "If you fee] 
 you must go, you must. I'm sorry but you must act as you 
 feel." 
 
 Mrs. Martin turned round and marched towards the door mut- 
 tering to herself. Just before she reached it Victoria and Clarice
 
 144 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 entered. Mrs. Martin looked at them, muttered something and 
 departed banging the door behind her. 
 
 Millie could see that Victoria was already upset, her large 
 fat face puckered into the expression of a baby who is not sure 
 whether it will cry or no. Clarice, her yellow hair untidy and 
 her pink gown trembling with unexpected little pieces of lace 
 and flesh, was quite plainly in a very bad temper. 
 
 "What's the matter with Mrs. Martin?" said Victoria, com- 
 ing through into the inner room. "She seems to be upset about 
 something/' 
 
 "She is," said Millie. "She's just given notice/* 
 
 "Given notice!" cried Victoria. "Oh dear, oh dear! What 
 shall we do? Millie, how could you let her? She's been with 
 us longer than any servant we've had since father died and she 
 cooks so well considering everything. She knows our ways now 
 and I've always been so careful to give her everything she 
 wanted. Oh Millie, how could you? You really shouldn't 
 have done it!" 
 
 "I didn't do it," said Millie. "She did it. I simply asked 
 her to look at the butcher's book for the last fortnight. It was 
 disgracefully large. She chose to be insulted and gave notice." 
 
 "Isn't that vexing?" cried Victoria. "I do think you might 
 have managed better, Millie. She isn't a woman who easily 
 takes offence either. She's taken such a real interest in us all 
 and nothing's been too much trouble for her!" 
 
 "Meanwhile," Millie said, "she's been robbing you right and 
 left. You know she has, Victoria. You as good as admitted 
 it to me the other day. Of course if you want to go on being 
 plundered, Victoria, it's no affair of mine. Only tell me so, 
 and I shall know where I am." 
 
 "I don't think you ought to speak to me like that," said 
 Victoria. "It's not kind of you. I didn't quite expect that of 
 you, Millie. You know the troubles I have and I hoped you were 
 going to help me with them and not give me new ones." 
 
 "I'm not giving you new ones," Millie answered. "I'm try- 
 ing to save you. However " 
 
 It was at this point that Clarice interrupted. "Now I hope 
 at last, Victoria," she said, "that your eyes are opened. It only 
 supports what I was saying downstairs. Miss Trenchard
 
 MILLIE IN LOVE 145 
 
 (Clarice had been calling her Miss Trenchard for the last fort- 
 night) may be clever and attractive and certainly young men 
 seem to think her so, but suited to be your secretary she is not." 
 
 Millie got up from her seat. "Isn't this beginning to be rather 
 personal?" she said. "Hadn't we all better wait until we are 
 a little cooler?" 
 
 "No we had not," said Clarice, trembling with anger. "Fm 
 glad this occasion has come at last. I've been waiting for it 
 for weeks. I'm not one to be underhand and to say things 
 behind people's backs that I would not dare to say to their faces ; 
 I say just what I think. I know, Miss Trenchard, that you 
 despise me and look down upon me. Of that I have nothing 
 to say. It may be deserved or it may not. I am here, how- 
 ever, to protect my sister. There are things that she is too 
 warm-hearted and kind-natured to see although they do go 
 on right under her very nose. There have been occasions be- 
 fore when I've had to point circumstances out to her. I've 
 never hesitated at what was I thought my duty. I do not hesi- 
 tate now. I tell you frankly, Miss Trenchard, that I think 
 your conduct during these last weeks has been quite disgraceful. 
 You have alienated all Victoria's best friends, disturbed the 
 servants and flirted with every young man that has come into 
 the house!" 
 
 This was the second occasion on which Millie lost her tem- 
 per that morning. 
 
 "Thank you," she said. "Now I know where I stand. But 
 you'll apologize please for that last insult before you leave this 
 room." 
 
 "I will not ! I will not !" cried Clarice. 
 
 "Oh dear, what shall I do?" interrupted Victoria. "I knew 
 this was going to be a terrible day the moment I got out of bed 
 this morning. Clarice, you really shouldn't say such things." 
 
 "I should! I should!" cried Clarice, stamping her foot. 
 "She's ruined everything since she came into the house. No 
 one knows how I worked at that horrible play and Bunny Baxter 
 was beginning to be so good, most amusing and knowing his 
 part perfectly until she came along. And then she turned his 
 head and he fancies he's in love with her and the whole thing 
 goes to pieces. And I always said, right away from the begin-
 
 146 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 ning, that we oughtn't to have Cissie Marrow as prompter, she 
 always loses her head and turns over two pages at once and 
 now I've gone and made myself the laughing-stock of London 
 and shall never be able to act in public again I" 
 
 The sight of Clarice's despair touched Millie, and when the 
 poor woman turned from them and stood, facing the window, 
 snuffling into a handkerchief, her anger vanished as swiftly 
 as it had come. 
 
 Besides what were they quarrelling about, three grown 
 women? Here was life passing and so much to be done and 
 they could stand and scream at one another like children in 
 the nursery. Millie's subconscious self seemed to be saying to 
 her: "I stand outside you. I obscure you. This is not real, 
 but I am real and something behind life is real. Laugh at- 
 this. It vanishes like smoke. This is not life." She suddenly 
 smiled; laughter irradiated all her face, shining in her eyes, 
 colouring her cheek. 
 
 "Clarice, I'm sorry. If I've been a pig to you all these weeks 
 I surely didn't mean to be. It hasn't been very easy not 
 through anybody's fault but simply because I'm so inexperienced. 
 I'm sure that I've been very trying to all of you. But why 
 should we squabble like this? I don't know what's happened 
 to all of us this year. We stood far worse times during the 
 War without losing our tempers, and we all of us put up with 
 one another. But now we all seem to get angry at the slightest 
 thing. I've noticed it everywhere. The little things now are 
 much harder to bear than the big things were in the War. 
 Please be friends, Clarice, and believe me that I didn't mean 
 to hurt you." 
 
 At this sudden softening Clarice burst into louder sobbing 
 and nothing was to be heard but "Ouch ! Ouch ! Ouch !" pro- 
 ceeding from the middle of the handkerchief. 
 
 All might now have been well had not Victoria most unfor- 
 tunately suddenly bethought herself of Mrs. Martin. 
 
 "All the same, Millie," she said. "It wasn't quite kindly 
 of you to speak to Clarice like that when you knew that she 
 must be tired after all the trouble she had with her. acting, 
 and I'm sure I thought it went very nicely indeed although 
 there was a little confusion in the middle which I'm certain
 
 MILLIE IN LOVE 147 
 
 nobody noticed half as much as Clarice thought they did. And 
 I do wish, Millie, that you hadn't spoken to Mrs. Martin like 
 that. I simply don't know what we shall do without her. We'll 
 never get any one else as good. I'm sure she never spoke to 
 me rudely. She only wants careful handling. I do so detest 
 registry offices and seeing one woman worse than another. I 
 do think you're to hlame, Millie!" 
 
 Whereupon Millie lost her temper for the third time that 
 morning and on this occasion very thoroughly indeed. 
 
 "All right," she said, "that finishes it. You can have my 
 month's notice, Victoria, as well as Mrs. Martin's I've endured 
 it as well as I could and as long as I could. I've been nearly 
 giving you notice a hundred times. And before I do go let me 
 just tell you that I think you're the greatest coward, Victoria, 
 that ever walked upon two feet. How many secretaries have 
 you had in the last two months ? Dozens I should fancy. And 
 why? Because you never support them in anything. You tell 
 them to go and do a thing and then when they do it desert 
 them because some one else in the house disapproves. You gave 
 me authority over the servants, told me to dismiss them if they 
 weren't satisfactory, and then when at last I do dismiss one of 
 them you tell me I was wrong to do it. I try to bring this 
 house into something like order and then you upset me at every 
 turn as though you didn't want there to be any order at all. 
 You aren't loyal, Victoria, thaf s what's the matter with you 
 and until you are you'll never get any one to stay with you. 
 I'm going a month from to-day and I wish you luck with your 
 next selection." 
 
 She had sufficient time to perceive with satisfaction Victoria's 
 terrified stare and to hear the startled arrest of Clarice's sobs. 
 She had marched to the door, she had looked back upon them 
 
 both, had caught Victoria's "Millie ! you can't " The door 
 
 was closed behind her and she was out upon the silent sunlit 
 staircase. 
 
 Breathless, agitated with a confusion of anger and penitence, 
 indignation and regret she ran downstairs and almost into the 
 arms of young Mr. Baxter. Oh ! how glad she was to see him I 
 Jlere at any rate was a man not one of these eternal women 
 frith their morbidities and hysterias and scenes! His very
 
 148 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 smile, his engaging youth and his air of humorous detachment 
 were jewels beyond any price to Millie just then. 
 
 "Why! What's the matter?" he cried. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know!" she answered. "I don't know whether 
 I'm going to laugh or cry or what I'm going to do ! Oh, those 
 women! Those women! Bunny take me somewhere. Do 
 something with me. Out of this. I'm off my head this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 "Come in here!" he said, drawing her with him towards a 
 little poky room on the right of the hall-door that was used 
 indifferently as a box-room, a writing-room and a room for 
 Beppo to retire into when he was waiting to pounce out upon 
 a ring at the door. It was dirty, littered with hat-boxes and 
 feminine paraphernalia. An odious room, nevertheless this 
 morning the sun was shining with delight and young Baxter 
 knew that his moment had come. 
 
 He pushed Millie in before him, closed the door, flung his 
 arms around her and kissed her all over her face. She pulled 
 herself away. 
 
 "You . . . You . . . What is the matter with every one this 
 morning?" 
 
 He looked at her with eyes dancing with delight. 
 
 "I'm sorry. I ought to have warned you. You looked so 
 lovely I couldn't help myself. Millie, I adore you. I have 
 done so ever since I first met you. I love you. I love you. You 
 must marry me. We'll be happy for ever and ever." 
 
 There were so many things that Millie should have said. 
 The simple truth was that she had been in love with him for 
 weeks and had no other thought but that. 
 
 "We can't marry," she said at last feebly. "We're both very 
 young. We've got no money." 
 
 "Young!" said Bunny scornfully. "Why, I'm twenty-seven, 
 and as to money I'll soon make some. Millie, come here !" 
 
 She who had but now scolded the Miss Platts as though they 
 were school children went to him. 
 
 "See!" he put his hands on her shoulders staring into her 
 eyes, "I oughtn't to have kissed you like that just now. It 
 wasn't right. I'm going to begin properly now. Dear Millicent, 
 will you marry me?"
 
 MILLIE IN LOVE 149 
 
 "What will your mother ?" 
 
 "Dear Millicent, will you marry me?" 
 
 "But if you haven't any money?" 
 
 "Dear Millicent, will you marry me?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She suddenly put her arms around him and hugged him as 
 though he had been a favourite puppy or an infant of very 
 tender years. She felt about him like that. Then they simply 
 sat hand in hand on a pile of packing-cases in the corner of 
 the room. He suddenly put his hand up and stroked her hair. 
 
 "Funny!" she said. "Some one did that the other day and 
 I hated it." 
 
 "Who dared?" 
 
 She laughed. "No one you need be jealous of." 
 
 Poor Ellen! She felt now that she loved all the world, 
 Clarice and Mrs. Martin included. 
 
 "You won't mind if you keep our engagement dark for a 
 week or two?" he asked. 
 
 "Why?" She turned round and looked at him. 
 
 "Oh ! I don't know. It would be more fun I think." 
 
 "I don't think it would. I hate concealing things." 
 
 "Oh, darling Millie, please only for a very little time a 
 week or two. My mother's away in Scotland and I don't want 
 to write it to her, I want to tell her/' 
 
 "Very well." She would agree to anything that he wanted, 
 but for a very brief moment a little chill of apprehension, 
 whence she knew not, had fallen upon her heart. 
 
 "Now I must go." She got up. They stood in a long won- 
 derful embrace. He would not let her go. She came back to 
 him again and again ; then she broke away and, her heart beat- 
 ing with ecstasy and happiness, came out into the hall that now 
 seemed dark and misty. 
 
 She stood for a moment trying to collect her thoughts. Sud- 
 denly Victoria appeared out of nowhere as it seemed. She spoke 
 breathlessly, as though she had been running. 
 
 "Millie . . . Millie . . . Oh, you're not going? You can't 
 be. ... You can't mean what you said. You mustn't go. 
 We'll never, never get on without you. Clarice is terribly sorry 
 she was rude, and I've given Mrs. Martin notice. You're quite
 
 150 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 right. She ought to have gone long ago. . . . You can't leave 
 us. You can do just what you like, have what you like. ..." 
 
 "Oh, you darling !" Millie flung her arms around her. "I'm 
 sorry I was cross. Of course I'll stay. I'll go and beg Clarice's, 
 pardon anything you like. I'll beg Mrs. Martin's if you want 
 me to. Anything you like ! I'll even kiss Mr. Block if you like. 
 ... Do you mind? Bunny Baxter's here. Can he stay to 
 lunch?" 
 
 "Oh, I'm so glad I" Victoria was tearfully wiping her eyes. 
 "I thought you might have gone already. We'll never have 
 a word again, never. Of course he can stay, for as long as. he 
 likes. Dear me, dear me, what a morning !" 
 
 The hoarse voice of Beppo was heard to announce that 
 luncheon was ready. 
 
 These are some letters that Millicent and Henry wrote to one 
 another at this time : 
 
 METROPOLITAN HOTEL, CLADGATE, 
 July 17, 1920. 
 
 DARLING HENRY We got down here last night and now it's ever 
 so late after twelve and I'm writing in a bedroom all red and 
 yellow, with a large picture of the Relief of Ladysmith over my 
 bed, and it's the very first moment I've had for writing to you. 
 What a day and what a place to spend six weeks in! However, 
 Victoria seems happy and contented, which is the main thing. 
 
 It appears that she stayed in this very hotel years ago with 
 her father when they were very poor, and they had two tiny rooms 
 at the very top of the hotel. He wanted her to see gay life, and 
 at great expense brought her here for a week. All the waiters 
 were sniffy and the chambermaid laughed at her and it has rankled 
 ever since. Isn't it pathetic? So she has come now for six solid 
 weeks, bringing her car and Mr. Andrew the new chauffeur and 
 me with her, and has taken the biggest suite in the hotel. Isn't 
 that pathetic? Clarice and Ellen, thank God, are not here, and 
 are to arrive when they do come one at a time. 
 
 We had so short a meeting before I came away that there was 
 no time to tell one another anything, and I have such lots to tell. 
 I didn't think you were looking very happy, Henry dear, or very 
 well. Do look after yourself. I'm glad your Baronet is taking 
 you into the country very shortly. I'm sure you need it. But 
 do you get enough to eat with him? His sister sounds a mean 
 old thing and I'm sure she scrimps over the housekeeping. 
 (Scrimps is my own word isn't it a good one?) Eat all you
 
 MILLIE IN LOVE 151 
 
 can when you're in the country. Make love to the cook. Plunder 
 the pantry. Make a store in your attic as the burglar did in our 
 beloved Jim. 
 
 One of the things I hadn't time to tell you is that I had an un- 
 holy row with every one before we came away. I told you that a 
 storm was blowing up. It burst all right, and first the housekeeper 
 told me what she thought and then I told the housekeeper and then 
 Clarice had her turn and Victoria had hers and I had the last turn 
 of all. I won a glorious victory and Victoria has eaten out of my 
 hand ever since, but I'm not sure that I'm altogether glad. Since 
 it happene'd Victoria's been half afraid of me, and is always look- 
 ing at me as though she expected me to burst out again, and I 
 don't like people being afraid of me it makes me feel small. 
 
 However, there it is and I've got her alone here all to myself, 
 and I'll see that she isn't frightened long. Then there's something 
 
 else. Something No, I won't tell you yet. For one thing I 
 
 promised not to tell any one, and although you aren't any one 
 
 exactly still But I shan't be able to keep it from you very 
 
 long. I'll just tell you this, that it makes me very, very happy. 
 Happier than I dreamt any one could ever be. 
 
 I shouldn't think Cladgate was calculated to make any one very 
 happy. However you never can tell. People like such odd things. 
 All I've seen of it so far is a long, oily-grey sea like a stretch of 
 linoleum, a pier with nobody on it, a bandstand with nobody in it, 
 a desert of a promenade, and the inside of this hotel which is all 
 lifts, palms, and messenger boys. But I've seen nothing yet, be- 
 cause I've been all day in Victoria's rooms arranging them for 
 her. I really think I'm going to love her down here all by myself. 
 There's something awfufiy touching about her. She feels all the 
 time she isn't doing the right thing with her money. She buys 
 all the newspapers and get shocks in every line. One moment it's 
 Ireland, another Poland, another the Germans, and then it's the 
 awful winter we're going to have and all the Unemployed there 
 are going to be. I try to read Tennis to her and all about the 
 wonderful Tilden, and what the fashions are at this moment in 
 Paris, and how cheerful Mr. Bottomley feels about everything, but 
 she only listens to what she wants to hear. However, she really 
 is cheerful and contented for the moment. 
 
 I had a letter from Katherine this morning. She says that 
 mother is worse and isn't expected to live very long. Aunt Aggie's 
 come up to see what she can do, and is fighting father and the 
 nurse all the time. For the first time in my life I'm on Aunt 
 Aggie's side. Any one who'll fight that nurse has me as a sup- 
 porter. Katherine's going to have another baby about November 
 and says she hopes it will be a girl. If it is ifs to be called Mil- 
 licent. Poor lamb! Philip's gone in more and mere for politics
 
 152 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 an3 says it's everybody's duty to fight the Extremists. He's going 
 to stand for somewhere in the next Election. 
 
 I must go to bed. I'll write more in a day or two. Write to 
 me soon and tell me all about everything and Cheer Up ! Your 
 loving MILLIE. 
 
 Have you seen Peter? 
 
 PANTON ST., July 21, '20. 
 
 DEAR MILLIE Thank you very much for your letter. Cladgate 
 sounds awful, but I daresay it will be better later on when more 
 people come. I'll make you an awful confession, which is that 
 there's nothing in the world I like so much as sitting in a corner 
 in the hall of one of those big seaside hotels and watching the 
 people. So long as I can sit there and don't have to do anything 
 and can just notice how silly we all look and how little we mean 
 any of the things we say, and how over-dressed we all are and how 
 conscious of ourselves and how bent on food, money and love, I 
 can stay entranced for hours. . . . However, this is off the sub- 
 ject. What is your secret? You knowing how inquisitive I am, 
 are treating me badly. However, I see that you are going to tell 
 me all about it in another letter or two, so I can afford to wait. 
 How strangely do our young careers seem to go arm in arm to- 
 gether at present. What I wanted to tell you the other day, only 
 I hadn't time, is that I also have been having a row in the house 
 of my employer an actual fist-to-fist combat or rather in this 
 case a chest-to-chest, because we were too close to one another to 
 use our fists. "We" was not Sir Charles and myself, but his great 
 bullock of a brother. It was a degrading scene, and I won't go 
 into details. The bullock tried to poke his nose into what I was 
 told he wasn't to poke his nose into, and I tried to stop him, and 
 we fell to the ground with a crash just as Sir Charles came in. 
 It's ended all right for me, apparently although I haven't seen 
 the bullock again since. 
 
 Sir Charles is a brick, Millie; he really is. I'd do anything for 
 him. He's awfully unhappy and worried. It's hateful sitting there 
 and not being able to help him. He's had in a typist fellow to 
 arrange the letters, Herbert Spencer by name. I asked him whether 
 he were related to the great H. S. and he said no, that his parents 
 wanted him to be and that's why they called him Herbert, but that 
 wasn't enough. He has large spectacles and long sticky fingers 
 and is very thin, but he's a nice fellow with a splendid Cockney 
 accent. I can now concentrate on the "tiddley-bits" which are very 
 jolly, and what I shan't know soon about the Edinburgh of 1800- 
 1840 won't be worth anybody's knowing. Next week I go down 
 with Buncombe to Buncombe Hall. Unfortunately Lady Bell- 
 Hall goes down too. I'm sorry, because when I'm with some one 
 who thinks poorly of me I always make a fool of myself, which
 
 
 
 MILLIE IN LOVE 153 
 
 I hate doing. I've been over to the house every day and en- 
 quired, but I haven't seen mother yet. Aunt Aggie is having a 
 great time. She has ordered the nurse to leave, and the nurse 
 has ordered her to leave; of course they'll both be there to the 
 end. Poor mother. . . . But why don't you and I feel it more? 
 We're not naturally hard or unfeeling. I suppose it's because we 
 know that mother doesn't care a damn whether we feel for her 
 or no. She put all her affection into Katherine years ago, and 
 then when Katherine disappointed her she just refused to give it 
 to anybody. I would like to see her for ten minutes and tell her 
 I'm sorry I've been a pig so often, but I don't think she knows 
 any more what's going on. 
 
 The worst of it is that I know that when she's dead I shall 
 hate myself for the unkind and selfish things I've done and only 
 remember her as she used to be years ago, when she took me to 
 the Army and Navy Stores to buy underclothes and gave me half- 
 a-crown after the dentist. 
 
 I'm all right. Don't you worry about me. The girl I told you 
 about is in a terrible position, but I can't do anything at present. 
 I can only wait until there's a crisis and I detest waiting as 
 you know. Peter's all right. He's always asking about you. 
 
 Norman and Forrest are going to reissue two of his early books, 
 Reuben Hallard and The Stone House, and at last he's begun his 
 novel. He says he'll probably tear it up when he's done a little, 
 but I don't suppose he will. Do write to him. He thinks a 
 most awful lot of you. It's important with him when he likes 
 anybody, because he's shut up his feelings for so long that they 
 mean a lot when they do come out. Write soon. Your loving 
 brother, HENRY. 
 
 METROPOLITAN HoTEL, CLADGATE, 
 
 July 26, '21. 
 
 DEAREST HENRY Thank you very much for your letters. I al- 
 ways like your letters because they tell me just what I want to 
 know, which letters so seldom do do. Mary Cass, for instance, 
 tells me about her chemistry and sheep's hearts, and how her second 
 year is going to be even harder than her first, but never anything 
 serious. 
 
 The first thing about all this since I wrote last is that it has 
 rained incessantly. I don't believe that there has ever been such 
 a wet month as this July since the Flood, and rain is especially 
 awful here because so many of the ceilings seem to have glassy 
 bits in them, and the rain makes a noise exactly like five hundred 
 thunderstorms, and you have to shriek to make yourself heard, and 
 I hate shrieking. Then it's very depressing, because all the palms 
 shiver in sympathy, and it's so dark that you have to turn on the 
 electric light which makes every one look hideous. But I don't
 
 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 care, I don't care about anything 1 I'm so happy, Henry, that I 
 There! I nearly let the secret out. I know that I shan't be able 
 
 to keep it for many more letters and I told him yesterday No, 
 
 I won't I must keep my promise. 
 
 Here's Victoria, I must write to you again to-morrow. 
 
 Telegram : 
 
 July 2T. 
 Who's Him? Let me know by return. 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 CLADGATE, July 28. 
 
 DEAREST HENRY You're very imperative, aren't you? Fancy 
 wasting money on a telegram and your finances in the state they're 
 in. Well, I won't tantalize you any longer; indeed, I can't keep 
 it from you, but remember that it's a secret to the whole world 
 for some time to come. 
 
 Well. I am engaged to a man called Baxter, and I love him 
 terribly. He doesn't know "how much I love him, nor is he going 
 to know ever. That's the way to keep men in their places. Who 
 is he you say ? Well, he's a young man who came to help Clarice 
 with her theatricals in London. I think I loved him the very 
 first moment I saw him he was so young and simple and jolly 
 and honest, and such a relief after all the tantrums going on else- 
 where. He says he loved me from the first moment, too, and I 
 believe he did. His people are all right. His father's dead, but 
 his mother lives in a lovely old house in Wiltshire, and wears a 
 lace white cap. He's the only child, and his mother (whom I 
 haven't yet seen) adores him. It's because of her that we're keep- 
 ing things quiet for the moment, because she's staying up in 
 Scotland with some relatives, and he wants to tell her all about it 
 by word of mouth instead of writing to her. I hate mysteries. 
 I always did but it seems a small thing to grant him. He's work- 
 ing at the Bar, but as there appears to be no chance of making a 
 large income out of that for some time, he thinks he'll help a 
 man in some motor works there's nothing about motors that he 
 doesn't know. Meanwhile, he's staying here in rooms near' the ho- 
 tel. Of course, Victoria has been told nothing, but I think she 
 guesses a good deal. She'd be stupid if she didn't. 
 
 I've never been in love before. I had no conception of what 
 it means. I'm not going to rhapsodize you needn't be afraid, but 
 in my secret self I've longed for some one to love and look after. 
 Of course, I love you, Henry dear, and always will, and certainly 
 you need looking after, but thaf s different. I want to do every 
 thing for Ralph (that's the name his mother gave him, but most 
 people call him Bunny), mend his socks, cook his food, comfort
 
 MILLIE IN LOVE 155 
 
 him in trouble, laugh with him when he's happy, be poor with 
 him, be rich with him, anything, everything. Of course I mustn't 
 show him I want to do all that, it wouldn't be good for him, and 
 we must both keep our independence, but I never knew that love 
 took you so entirely outside yourself, and threw you so com- 
 pletely inside some one else. 
 
 Now you're quite different ; I don't mean that your way of being 
 in love isn't just as good as mine, but it's different. With you 
 it's all in the romantic idea. I believe you like it better when she 
 slips away from you, always just is beyond you, so that you can 
 keep your idea without tarnishing it by contact. You want yours 
 to be beautiful I want mine to be real. And Bunny is real. 
 There's no double about it at all. 
 
 Oh! I do hope you'll like him. You're so funny about people. 
 One never knows what you're going to think. He's quite different 
 from Peter, of course he's much younger for one thing, and he 
 isn't intellectually clever. Not that he's stupid, but he doesn't care 
 for your kind of books and music. I'm rather glad of that. I 
 don't want my husband to be cleverer than I am. I want him to 
 respect me. 
 
 I'm terribly anxious for you both to meet. Bunny says he'll 
 be afraid of you. You sound so clever. It's still raining, but of 
 course I don't care. Victoria is a sweet pet and will go to Heaven. 
 Your loving sister, MILLICENT. 
 
 .# Don't tell Peter. 
 
 PANTON ST., July 30. 
 
 MY DEAR MILL I don't quite know what to say. Of course, I 
 want you to be happy, and I'd do anything to make you so, but 
 somehow he doesn't sound quite the man I expected you to marry. 
 Are you sure, Millie dear, that he didn't seem nice just because 
 everybody at the Platts seemed horrid? However, whatever will 
 make you happy will please me. As soon as I come up from Dun- 
 combe I must meet him, and give you both my grand-paternal 
 blessing. We go down to Duncombe to-morrow, and if it goes 
 on raining like this, it will be pretty damp, I expect. I won't 
 pretend that I'm feeling very cheerful. My affair is in a horrid 
 state. I can't bear to leave her, and yet there's nothing else for 
 me to do. However, I shall be able to run up about once a week 
 and see her. Her mother is still friendly, but I expect a row at 
 any moment. This news of yours seems to have removed you 
 suddenly miles away. It's selfish of me to feel that, but it was 
 all so grizzly at home yesterday that for the moment I'm de- 
 pressed. Oh, Millie, I do hope you'll be happy. . . . You must 
 be, you must! Your loving brother, 
 
 HENBY.
 
 CHAPTER YI 
 
 HENRY AT DUNCOMBE 
 
 IN the late afternoon of Wednesday August 4 Henry found 
 himself standing in the pouring rain on the little wind- 
 driven platform of Salting Marting, the station for Duncombe. 
 
 He was trying to whistle as he stood under the eaves of the 
 little hideous roof, his hands deep in his waterproof, his eyes 
 fixed sternly upon a pile of luggage over which he was mount- 
 ing guard. The car ordered to meet them had not appeared, 
 the ancient Moffatt was staring down the wet road in search 
 of it, Sir Charles was telephoning and Lady Bell-Hall shiver- 
 ing over the simulacrum of a fire in the little waiting-room. 
 
 Henry did not feel very cheerful; this was not a happy prel- 
 ude to a month at Duncombe Hall, and the weather had been 
 during the last few weeks more than even England's reputa- 
 tion could tolerate. 
 
 Henry was very susceptible to atmosphere, and now the cold 
 and wet and gathering dusk seem to have been sent towards 
 him from Duncombe and to speak ominously in his ear of what 
 he would find there. 
 
 He had seldom in all his young life felt so lonely, and he 
 seemed to be back in the War again waiting in a muddy trench 
 for dawn to break and . . . 
 
 "I've succeeded in procuring something," wheezed Moffatt 
 in his ear, "if you'd kindly assist with the luggage, Mr. 
 Blanchard." 
 
 (It was one of Moffatt's most trying peculiarities that he 
 could not master Henry's name.) 
 
 "Why, it's a four-wheeler !" Henry heard Lady Bell-Hall 
 miserably exclaim. 
 
 "It's all I could do, m'lady," creaked Moffatt. "Very diffi- 
 cult 's time of the evening. Did m' best, m'lady." 
 
 156
 
 HENRY AT BUNCOMBE 157 
 
 They climbed inside and were soon rising and sinking in a 
 grey dusk, whilst boxes, bags and packages surged around them. 
 There was complete silence, and at last Lady Bell-Hall went to 
 sleep on Henry's shoulder, to his extreme physical pain, be- 
 cause a hatpin stuck sharply into his shoulder, and spiritual 
 alarm, because he knew how deeply she would resent his support 
 when she woke up. Strange thoughts flitted through his head 
 as he bumped and jolted to the rattle of the wheels. They 
 were dead, stumbling to the Styx, other coaches behind them; 
 he could fancy the white faces peering from the windows, the 
 dark coachman and yet other grey figures stealing from the 
 dusky hedges and climbing in to their fore-destined places. 
 The Styx? It would be cold and windy and the rain would 
 hiss upon the sluggish waters. An exposed boat as he had 
 always understood, the dim figures huddled together, their eyes 
 straining to the farther shore. He nodded, nodded, nodded 
 Millie, Christina . . . Mrs. Tenssen ... a strange young man 
 called Baxter whom he hated at sight and tried to push from 
 the Coach. The figure changed to Tom Buncombe, swelling 
 to an enormous size, swelling, ever swelling, filling the coach so 
 that they were breathless, crushed ... a sharp pricking awoke 
 him to a consciousness of Lady Bell-Hall's hatpin and then, 
 quite suddenly, to something else. The noise that he heard, 
 not loud, but in some way penetrating beyond the rattle and 
 mumble of the cab, was terrifying. Some one in great pain 
 grr grr grr Ah! Ah! grr the noise compressed between 
 the teeth and coming in little gasps of agony. 
 
 "What is it?" he said, in a whisper. "Is that you, sir?" 
 He could see very little, the afternoon light faint and green 
 behind the rain-blurred panes, but the bkck figure of Buncombe 
 was hunched up against the cab-corner. 
 
 "What is it? Oh, sir, what is it?" 
 
 Then very far away a voice came to him, the words faltering 
 from clenched teeth. 
 
 "If s nothing. . . . Pain bad for a moment " 
 
 "Shall I stop the cab, sir?" 
 
 "No, no. ... Bon't wake my sister." 
 
 The sound of agonizing pain behind the words was like
 
 158 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 thing quite inhuman, unearthly, coming from the ground be- 
 neath the cab. 
 
 Henry, trembling with sympathy, and a blind eagerness to 
 help, leant forward. Could he change seats? He had wished 
 to sit with his back to the horses but Buncombe had insisted 
 on his present place. 
 
 "Please . . . can't I do something?" 
 
 "No . . . nothing. It will pass in a moment." 
 
 A hand, trembling, came out and touched his, then suddenly 
 clutched it, jumping from its weak quiver into a frantic grasp, 
 almost crushing Henry's. The hand was hot and damp. For 
 the moment in the contact with that trouble, the world seemed 
 to stop there was no sound, no movement even the rain had 
 withered away. . . . Then the hand trembled again, relaxed, 
 withdrew. 
 
 Henry said nothing. He was shaking from head to foot. 
 
 Lady Bell-Hall awoke. "Oh, where am I? Who's that? 
 Is that the bell? ..." Then very stiffly: "Oh, I'm very sorry, 
 Mr. Trenchard. I'm afraid I was dozing. Are we nearly 
 there? Are you there, Charles?" 
 
 Very faintly the voice came back. 
 
 "Yes . . . another half-mile. We've passed Brantiscombe/' 
 
 "Really, this cab. I wonder what Mortimers were doing, 
 not sending us a taxi. On a day like this too." 
 
 There was silence again. The cab bumped along. Henry 
 could think of nothing but that agonizing whisper. Only terri- 
 ble suffering could have produced that and fr&m such a man 
 as Buncombe. The affection and devotion that had grown 
 through these months was now redoubled. He would do any- 
 thing for him, anything. Had he known? Memories -oame 
 back to him of hours in the library when Sir Charles had sat 
 there, his face white, his eyes sternly staring. Perhaps 
 then. . . . But surely some one knew? He moved impatiently, 
 longing for this horrible journey to be ended. Then there were 
 lights, a gate swung back, and they were jolting down between 
 an avenue of trees. Soon the cab stopped with a jerk before 
 a high grey stone building that stood in the half-light as a 
 veiling shadow for a high black doorway and broad sweeping 
 steps. Behind, in front and on every side they were surrounded,
 
 HENEY AT DUNCOMBE 159 
 
 it seemed, by dripping and sighing trees. Lady Bell-Hall 
 climbed out with many little tweaks of dismay and difficulty, 
 then Henry. He turned and caught one revealing vision of 
 Sir Charles's face white, drawn and most strangely aged 
 as he stood under the yellow light from a hanging square lan- 
 tern before moving into the house. 
 
 At once standing in the hall Henry loved the house. It 
 seemed immediately to come towards him with a gesture of 
 friendliness and sympathy. The hall was wide and high with 
 a deep stone fireplace and a dark oak staircase peering from 
 the shadows. It was ill-lit; the central lamp had been designed 
 apparently to throw light only on the portrait of a young man 
 in the dress of the early eighteenth century that hung over 
 the fireplace. Under his portrait Henry read "Charles Forest 
 Buncombe October 13th, 1745." 
 
 An elderly, grave-looking woman stood there and a young 
 apple-cheeked footman to whom Moffatt was "tee-heeing, tut- 
 tutting" in a supercilious whisper. Lady Bell-Hall recovered 
 a little. "Ah, there you are, Morgan. Quite well? That's 
 right. And we'll have tea in the Blue Room. It's very late 
 because Mortimer never sent the taxi, but we'll have tea all 
 the same. I must have tea. Take Pretty One, please, Morgan. 
 Don't drop her. Ickle-Ickle-Ickle. Was it cold because we 
 were in a nasty slow cab, was it then? There, then, darling. 
 Morgan shall take her then kind Morgan. Yes, tea in the 
 Blue Room, please." 
 
 At last Henry was in his room, a place to which he had 
 come, as it seemed to him, through endless winding passages 
 and up many corkscrew stairs. It was a queer-shaped little 
 room with stone walls, a stone floor and very narrow high win- 
 dows. There was, of course, no fire, because in England we 
 keep religiously to the seasons whatever the weather may be. 
 The rain was driving heavily upon the window-panes and some 
 branches drove with irregular monotony against the glass. The 
 furniture was of the simplest, and there was only one picture 
 an oil-painting over the fireplace, of a thin-faced, dark-browed, 
 eighteenth-century priest, cadaverous, menacing, scornful. 
 
 Henry seemed to be miles away from any human company. 
 Not a sound came to him save the rain and the driving branches.
 
 160 THE YOUHG ENCHANTED 
 
 He washed his hands, brushed his hair, and prepared to find 
 his way downstairs, but beside the door he paused. As he had 
 fancied in the library in Hill Street, so now again it seemed 
 to him that something was whispering to him, begging him for 
 sympathy and understanding. He looked back to the little chill 
 room, then up to the portrait of the priest, then to the window 
 beyond which he could see the thin grey twilight changing to 
 the rainy dark. He stood listening, then with a little shiver, 
 half of pleasure, half of apprehension, he went out into the 
 passage. 
 
 His journey, then, was full of surprises. The house was 
 deserted. The passage in which he found himself was bor- 
 dered with looms, and after passing two or three doors he 
 timidly opened one and peered in. In the dusk he could see 
 but little, the air that met him was close and heavy, dust blew 
 into his nostrils, and he could just discern a high four-poster 
 bed. The floor was bare and chill. Another room into which 
 he looked was apparently quite empty. The passage was now 
 very dark and he had no candle; he stumbled along, knocking 
 his elbow against the wall. "They might have put me in a 
 livelier part of the house/ 7 he thought; and yet he was not 
 displeased, carrying still with him the sense that he was 
 welcome here and not alone. In the dusk he nearly pitched 
 forward over a sudden staircase, but finding an oak banister 
 he felt his way cautiously downward. On the next floor he 
 was faced with a large oak door, which would lead, he fancied, 
 to the other part of the house. He pushed it slowly back and 
 found himself in a chapel suffused with a dark purple light 
 that fell from the stained-glass window above the altar. 
 
 He could see only dimly, but above the oaken seats he fan- 
 cied that some tattered flags were hanging. Here the con- 
 sciousness of sympathy that had been with him from the begin- 
 ning grew stronger. Something seemed to be urging him to 
 sit down there and wait. The air grew thicker and the windows, 
 seats and walls were veiled in purple smoky mist. He crept 
 out half-ashamedly as though he were deserting some one, found 
 the stairs again, and a moment later was in a well-lit carpeted 
 passage. With a sigh of relief he saw beyond him Moffatt and 
 the footman carrying the tea.
 
 HENRY AT BUNCOMBE 161 
 
 He woke next day to an early morning flood of sunshine. 
 His monastic little room with its stone walls and narrow win- 
 dows swam in the light that sparkled, as though over water, 
 above his faded blue carpet. He went to his window and looked 
 out on to a boxwood garden with a bleached alley that led to 
 a pound, a statue and a little green arbour. Beyond the garden 
 there were woods, pale green, purple, black against the brightness 
 of the early morning sky. Thousands of birds were singing 
 and the grass was intensely vivid after the rain of the day 
 before, running in the far distance around the arbour like a 
 newly painted green board. 
 
 The impression that the next week made was all of colour, 
 light and sunshine. That strange melancholy that had seemed 
 to him to pervade everything on the night of his arrival was 
 now altogether gone, although a certain touching, intangible 
 wistfulness was there in everything that he saw and heard. 
 
 The house was much smaller than he had at first supposed 
 compact, square, tesembling in many ways an old-fashioned 
 doll's house. Buncombe told him that small as it was they had 
 closed some of the rooms, and apologized to him for giving him 
 a bedroom in the unfurnished portion. "In reality," he ey 
 plained, "that part of the house where you are is the brightest 
 and most cheerful side." Our mother, to whom my sister was 
 devotedly attached, died in the room next to yours, and my 
 sister cannot bear to cross those passages." 
 
 The little chapel was especially enchanting to Henry; the 
 stained glass of the east window was most lovely, deep, rich, 
 seeming to sink into the inmost depths of colour; it gave out 
 shadows of purple and red and blue that he had never seen 
 before. The three old flags that hung over the little choir 
 were tattered and torn, but proud. All the rooms in the 
 house were small, the ceilings low, the fireplaces deep and 
 draughty. 
 
 Henry soon perceived that Buncombe loved this house with 
 a passionate devotion. He seemed to become another man as 
 he moved about in it busied continually with tiny details, touch- 
 ing this, shifting that, having constant interviews with Spiders, 
 the gardener, a large, furry-faced man, and old Moifatt, and 
 Simon, the apple-cheeked footman; an identity suddenly in its
 
 162 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 right place, satisfying its soul, knowing its true country as he 
 had never seemed to do in London. 
 
 Henry saw no recurrence of the crisis in the cah. Buncombe 
 made no allusion to it and gave no sign of pain only Henry 
 fancied that behind Buncombe's eyes he saw a foreboding con- 
 sciousness of some terror lying in wait for him and ready to 
 spring. 
 
 The room in which he worked was a little library, diminutive 
 in comparison with the one in London, on the ground floor, 
 looking out on to the garden with the statue of Cupid and the 
 pond a dear little room with old black-faced busts and high 
 glass-fronted bookcases. He had brought a number of books 
 down with him, and soon he had settled into the place as 
 though he had been there all his life. 
 
 The interval of that bright, sunny, bird-haunted week seemed, 
 when afterwards he looked back to it, like a pause given to him 
 in which to prepare for the events that were even then crowd- 
 ing, grey-shaped, face-muffled, to his door. . . .
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 AXD PBTBE IN LONDON 
 
 THE Third of the Company meanwhile was feeling lonely 
 and deserted in London. London in August is really de- 
 pressing in spite of its being the conventional habit to say so. 
 Around every worker's brain there is a consciousness of the 
 wires of captivity, and although the weather may be, and indeed 
 generally is, cold, wet and dark, nevertheless it is hard to doubt 
 but that it is bright and shining by the sea and- on the downs. 
 
 Peter could have gone into the country nothing really held 
 him to London but he had in literal truth no one with whom 
 to go. In the past he had not grumbled at having no friends; 
 that was after all his own choice no one was to blame save 
 himself but during these last months something had happened 
 to him. He was at length waking from a sleep that seemed to 
 him as he looked back to have lasted e,ver since that terrible 
 night that he had spent on the hill outside Tobias, the night of 
 the day that Norah Monogue had died. 
 
 At last he was waking. What he had said to Millie was true 
 his interest in herself and Henry was the force that had stirred 
 him and stirred him now to what dangerous ends? 
 
 One night early in August flung him suddenly at the truth. 
 
 Two of the Three Graces Grace Talbot and Jane Ross 
 were at home to their friends in their upper part in Soho Square. 
 Peter went because he could not endure another lonely evening 
 in his rooms another hour by himself and he would be forced 
 to face the self-confession that now at every cost he must avoid. 
 So he went out and found himself in the little low-ceilinged 
 rooms, thick with smoke and loud with conversation. 
 
 Grace Talbot was looking very faint and languid, buried 
 in a large armchair in the centre of the room with a number 
 of men round her ; Jane Ross, plainer and more pasty than ever, 
 
 163
 
 164 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 was trying to be a genial hostess, and discovering, not for the 
 first time, that a caustic tongue was more easily active than a 
 kind heart. She wanted to be nice to every one, but, really, 
 people were so absurd and so stupid cwd so slow. It wasn't 
 her fault that she was so much cleverer than every one else. 
 She didn't want to be. But there you were; one can't help 
 one's fate. 
 
 Peter was greeted by one or two and settled down into a 
 chair in a corner near a nice, fat, red-faced man called Amos 
 Campbell. Campbell was a novelist who had once been of the 
 Galleon school and full of Galleonish subtleties, and now was 
 popular and Trollopian. He was, perhaps, a trifle over-pleased 
 with himself and the world, a little too prosperous and jolly 
 and optimistic, and being in addition the son of a Bishop, his 
 yoice at times rose to a pulpit ring, but he meant well, was 
 vigorous and bland and kindly. The Graces thoroughly despised 
 him and Peter was astonished to see him there. Perhaps Nistsr 
 or Gale or one of the other men had brought him. He would 
 have received no mention in this history had it not been for a 
 conversation that had important results both for Peter and 
 Henry. 
 
 Literary parties were curious affairs in 1920 ; they shared the 
 strange general character of that year in their confusion and 
 formlessness. It was a fact that at that time in London there 
 was not a single critical figure who commanded general respect. 
 No school of criticism carried any authority outside its im- 
 mediate following not one man nor woman alive in Great 
 Britain at that moment, not one literary journal, weekly, 
 monthly, or daily, carried enough weight behind its literary 
 judgments to shift for a moment the success or failure of a book 
 or a personality. Monteith, whose untidy black hair and pale 
 face Peter saw in the distance, had been expected to do great 
 things, but as soon as he had commanded a literary weekly he 
 had shown that he had no more breadth, nor wisdom, nor 
 knowledge than the other men around him, and he had fallen 
 quickly into the hands of a small clique who wrote for his papers 
 in a happy spirit of mutual admiration. All this was nobody's 
 fault it was the note of a period that was far stronger in its 
 character than any single human being in it.
 
 AND PETER IN LONDON 165 
 
 Everything was in the whirlpool of change, and that little 
 room to-night, with its smoke, furious conversation, aimless 
 wandering of dim figures moving in and out of the haze, formed 
 a very good symbol of the larger world outside. 
 
 Peter exchanged a few sentences with Campbell then fell into 
 silence. Suddenly the restraint that he had been forcing upon 
 himself for the last two months was relaxed. He would think 
 of her. Why should he not? For five minutes. For five min- 
 utes. In that dim, smoke-obscured room who would know, 
 who could tell, who could see her save himself? 
 
 She came towards him, smiling, laughing, suddenly springing 
 up before him, her arms outstretched, bright in her orange 
 jumper as she had been on that day in Henry's room; then her 
 face changed, softened, gravity came into it; she was leaning 
 towards him, listening to his story, her eyes were kindly, she 
 stretched out her hand and touched his knee, he held out his 
 arms. . . . Oh God ! but he must not. She was not for him, 
 she could not be. Even were he not already tied what could he 
 offer her with his solemnity and dreaminess ? . . . He sprang up. 
 
 "Going already ?" said Campbell. "Had enough of it?" 
 
 "No. I want to speak to Monteith. Hullo, there's Seymour. 
 Keep him off, Campbell. His self-satisfaction is more than I 
 could endure just now." 
 
 He sat down again and watched the figures, so curiously dim 
 and unreal that it might be a world of ghosts. 
 
 "Ghosts? Perhaps we are. Anyway we boon will be." 
 
 Jane Eoss came stumping towards him. "Oh, Mr. Westcott! 
 Come and make yourself useful. There's Anna Makepeace over 
 there, who wrote Plum Bun. You ought to know her." 
 
 "I'm very happy where I am." She stumped away, and, 
 sitting back in his chair, he was suddenly aware of Grace Talbot, 
 who, although Monteith had come up and was talking very 
 seriously, was staring in front of her, lost, many miles away, 
 dreaming. 
 
 She was suddenly human to him, she who had been for the 
 most part the drop of ink at the end of a cynical pen, the con- 
 temptuous flash of an arrogant eye, the languorous irony of a 
 dismissing hand. 
 
 She was as unhappy as himself; perceiving it suddenly and
 
 166 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 her essential loneliness he felt a warmth of feeling for her that 
 intensely surprised him. "What children we all are!" he said 
 to himself: "the Graces, Monteith, the great Mr. Winch, the 
 Parisian Mrs. Wanda, and all the rest of us ! How little we 
 know! What insecure, fumbling artists the best of us and 
 the only two great writers of our time are the humblest men 
 amongst us. After all our arrogance is necessary for us because 
 we have failed, written so badly, travelled such a tiny way." 
 
 An urgent longing for humility, generosity, humour, kindli- 
 ness of heart swept over him. He felt that at that moment he 
 could love any one, however slow and conventional their brain 
 were their heart honest, generous and large. He and Monteith 
 and Grace Talbot were leading little hemmed-in lives, moving 
 in little hemmed-in groups, talking in little hemmed-in phrases. 
 
 Like Henry a few months earlier a revelation seemed to come 
 to him that Life was the gate to Art, not Art to Life. He surely 
 had been taught that lesson again and again and yet he had 
 not learnt it. 
 
 He was pulled out into the centre of the room by a sudden 
 silence and a realization that every one was listening to a heated 
 argument between Monteith and Campbell. Grace Talbot was 
 looking up from her chair at the two men with her accustomed 
 glance of lazy superiority. 
 
 Westcott was surprised at Campbell, who was a comfortable 
 man, eager to be liked by every one, afraid therefore to risk 
 controversy lest some one should be displeased, practised in 
 saying the thing that his neighbour wished to hear. 
 
 But something on this occasion had become too strong for 
 him an'd dragged him for once into a public declaration of faith, 
 regardless whether he offended or no. 
 
 "You're all wrong, Monteith," he burst out. "You're all 
 wrong. And I'll tell you why. I'm ten years older than you 
 are and ten years ago I might have thought as you do. Now 
 I know better. You're wrong because you're arrogant, and 
 you're arrogant because you're limited, and you're limited be- 
 cause you've surrounded yourself with smaller men who all 
 think as you do. You've come to look on the world simply 
 as one big field especially manured by God for the sowing of 
 your own little particular seed. If other poor humans choose
 
 AND PETER IN LONDON" 167 
 
 to beg for some of your seed you'll let them have it and give 
 them permission to sow, but there's only one kind of seed, and 
 you know what kind that is. 
 
 "Well, you're wrong. You've got a decent little pknt that 
 was stronger six years ago than it is now but still not a bad 
 little plant. You're fluent and clever and modern; you're 
 better than some of them, Grace Talbot here, for instance, 
 because you do believe in the past and believe that it has some 
 kind of connection with the present, but you've deliberately 
 narrowed your talent and your influence by your arrogance. 
 Arrogance, Arrogance, Arrogance that's the matter with all 
 of you and the matter with Literature and Art to-day, and 
 politics too. You all think you've got the only recipe and that 
 you've nothing to learn. You've everything to learn. Any 
 ploughman in Devonshire to-day could teach you, only the 
 trouble is that he's arrogant too now and thinks he knows every- 
 thing because his Labour leaders tell him so." 
 
 Campbell paused and Monteith struck in. Monteith when 
 he was studying at Cambridge the Arts of being a Public Man 
 had learnt that Eule No. 1 was Never lose your temper in 
 public unless the crowd is with you. 
 
 He remained therefore perfectly calm, simply scratching his 
 hair and rubbing his bristly chin. 
 
 "Very good, Campbell. But aren't you being a little bit 
 arrogant yourself? And quite right, too. You ought to be 
 arrogant and I ought to be. We both imagine that we know 
 something about literature. Well, why shouldn't we say what 
 we know? What's the good of the blind leading the blind? 
 Why should I pretend that I know as little as Mr. Snookes 
 and Mr. Jenks? I know more than they. Why should I pre- 
 tend that every halfpenny novelist who happens to be the fashion 
 of the moment is worth attention? Why shouldn't I select the 
 good work and praise it and leave the rest alone ?" 
 
 "Yes," said Campbell; "what's good work by your over- 
 sophisticated, over-read, over-intellectual standard? Well and 
 good if you'll say 'I've trained myself in such and such a way 
 and my opinions are there. My training, my surroundings, 
 my own talent, my friends have all persuaded me in this direc- 
 tion. There are other men, other works that may be good or
 
 168 THE YOUNTG ENCHANTED 
 
 bad. I don't know. About contemporary Art one can only be 
 personal, never final. I have neither the universal tempera- 
 ment nor the universal training to be Judge. I can be Advo- 
 cate, Special Pleader. I can show you something good that you 
 haven't noticed before. 
 
 "I am not God Almighty, nor do I come straight from 
 Olympus. I have still a lot to learn." 
 
 "If you'll forgive me saying so, Mr. Campbell/' said Jane 
 Ross, "you're talking the most arrant nonsense. You're doing 
 your best to break down what a few of us are trying to restore 
 some kind of a literary standard. At last there's an attempt 
 being made to praise good work and leave the fools alone." 
 
 "And I'm one of the fools," broke in Campbell. "Oh, I know. 
 But don't think there's personal feeling in this. There might 
 have been ten years ago. I worried then a terrible deal about 
 whether I were an artist or no; I cared what you people said, 
 read your reviews and was damnably puzzled by the different 
 decisions you gave. And then suddenly I said to myself : 'Why 
 shouldn't I have some fun? Life's short. I'm not a great 
 artist, and never shall be. I'll write to please myself/ And I 
 did. And I've been happy ever since. You're just as divided 
 about me as you used to be. And just as divided about one 
 another. The only difference is that you still worry about one 
 another and fight and scratch, and I bow to your superior judg- 
 ment and enjoy myself. I haven't much of an intellect, I'm 
 not a good critic, but I'm nearer real life than you are, any of 
 you. What you people are doing is not separating the sheep 
 from the goats as you think you are none of you are decided 
 as to who the sheep really are but you are simply separating 
 Life from Art. We're not an artistic nation nothing will 
 ver make us one. We've provided some of the greatest artists 
 the world has ever seen because of our vitality and our inde- 
 pendence of cliques. How much about Art did Richardson and 
 Fielding, Scott and Jane Austen, Thackeray and Dickens, 
 Trollope and Hardy consciously know? When has Hardy ever 
 written one single statement about Art outside his own prefaces, 
 and in them he talks simply of his own books. But these men 
 knew about life. Fielding could tell you what the inside of a 
 debtor's prison is like, and Scott could plant trees, and Thack-
 
 AND PETEE IN LONDON 169 
 
 eray was no mean judge of a shady crowd at a foreign watering- 
 place, and Hardy knew all about milking a cow. What do you 
 people know about anything save literary values and over them 
 you squabble all the while. There aren't any literary values 
 until Time has spoken. But there is such a thing as respond- 
 ing to the beauty in something that you've seen or read and 
 telling others that you've enjoyed it and there are more things 
 in this world to enjoy even in the mess that it's in at this 
 moment than any of you people realize." 
 
 Campbell stopped. Seymour, who was standing just behind 
 him, saw fit to remark: "How right you are, Campbell; Life's 
 glorious it seems to me. What was it Stevenson said: 'Life 
 is so full of a number of things.' '' 
 
 Poor Campbell! Nothing more terrible than Seymour's ap- 
 preciation was to be found in the London of that period. 
 
 "Oh, damn!" Campbell muttered. "I didn't see you were 
 there, Seymour. Just my luck." 
 
 But Peter had been watching Grace Talbof s eyes. She had 
 not listened to a word of the little discussion. The cessation of 
 voices pulled her back. "You're a good fellow, Campbell," she 
 said. "You've got a good digestion, a gift for narrative, very 
 little intellect, and at fifty you'll be very fat and have purple 
 veins in your nose. We all like you, but you really must for- 
 give us for not taking you seriously." 
 
 Campbell laughed. "Perhaps you're right," he said. "But 
 which is better ? To be a second-rate artist and free or to be a 
 second-rate artist and bound ? Your little stories are very nice, 
 Grace, but they aren't as good as either Tchehov or Maupassant. 
 Monteith's poetry is clever, but it isn't as good as T. E. Brown 
 on one side or Clough on the other, and neither T. E. Brown or 
 Clough were first-rate poets. So can't we, all of us, second- 
 raters as we are, afford to be generous to one another and take 
 everything a little less solemnly? Life's passing, you know. 
 Happiness and generosity are worth having." 
 
 "We will now sing Hymn 313 : 'Onward Christian Soldiers/ " 
 said Jane Ross, laughing. "Next Sunday being the Third after 
 Trinity the sermon at Evensong will be preached by the Rer. 
 Amos Campbell, Rector of Little Marrow Pumpernickel. He
 
 170 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 will take as his text ^Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit 
 the earth/ The Collection will be for Church Expenses." 
 
 Every one laughed but Grace Talbot moved restlessly in her 
 chair. 
 
 "All the same/' she said, "Amos is right in a way. Why the 
 
 devil don't we write better ? I wish I wish " But nobody 
 
 knew what she wished because the great Mr. Winch arrived at 
 that moment and demanded attention. 
 
 Peter walked home to his Marylebone rooms in a fine confusion 
 of thought and feeling. Campbell was a bit of a fool, too fat, 
 too prosperous, too anxious to be popular, but he was a happy 
 man and a man who was living his life at its very fullest. He 
 was not a great artist, of course great artists are never happy 
 but he had a narrative gift that it amused him to play every 
 morning of his life from ten to twelve, and he made money from 
 that gift and could buy books and pictures and occasionally do a 
 friend a good turn. Monteith and Grace Talbot and the others 
 were more serious artists and were more seriously considered, 
 but their gifts came to mighty little in the end thin, little 
 streams. As to Peter his gift came simply to nothing at all. 
 And yet he did not wish to be Campbell. Too much prosperity 
 was bad and Campbell in the "slippered and pantaloon" age, 
 when it came to him, would be unpleasant to behold. His en- 
 chantment was very different from Millie's and Henry's, bless 
 them. At the thought of them there came such a longing for 
 them, for their physical presence, their cheery voices, their 
 laughter and noise, that he could scarcely endure his loneliness. 
 Theirs was the Age. Theirs the Kingdom, the Power and the 
 Glory. 
 
 And why should he not long for Millie ? For the second time 
 that evening he abandoned himself to the thought of her. As 
 he walked down Oxford Street, pearl-grey under sheeted stars, 
 he conjured her to his side, put his arm about her, bent down 
 and raised her face to his, kissed her. . . . Why should he not? 
 He was married. But that was such years ago. Was he to be 
 cursed for ever because of that early mistake ? 
 
 Maybe Clare was dead. He would go off to France to-morrow 
 and make another search. Now when real love had come to
 
 AND PETEE TN LONDON 171 
 
 him at last he would not be cheated any more. Life was 
 passing. In a few years it would be too late. His agonized 
 longing for Millie seized him so that he stood for a moment out- 
 side the shuttered windows of Selfridge's, frozen into immobility 
 by the power of his desire. 
 
 At least he could be her friend her friend who would run to 
 the world's end for her if she wished it ; to be her friend and to 
 write as Campbell had said simply for his own fun after all, he 
 was getting something out of life in that; to go on and see this 
 new world developing in her eyes, to help her to get the best out 
 of it, to live for the young generation through her. ... So 
 strong was his desire that he really believed for a moment that 
 she was by his side. . . . 
 
 "Millie," he whispered. When in his rooms he switched on 
 the light he found on his table two letters ; he saw at once that 
 one was in Millie's handwriting. Eagerly he tore it open. He 
 read it : 
 
 METROPOLITAN HOTEL, CLADGATE. 
 
 MY DEAR PETER I feel that you must be the next human being 
 after Henry to hear a piece of news that has made me very happy. 
 I am engaged to a man called Baxter. I met him first at Miss 
 Plattfs and fell in love with him at first sight. I do hope you'll 
 like him. I'm sure you will. I've told him a"bout you and lie 
 says he's afraid of you because you sound so clever. He's clever 
 too in his -own way, but it isn't books. I'm so happy and it does 
 seem so selfish when the world is in such a mess and so many 
 people are hard up. But this only happens once! 
 
 I do want you to meet Bunny (that's Baxter) as soon as ever 
 you can.Your affectionate friend, 
 
 MILLICENT TRENCHARD. 
 
 When Peter had finished the letter he switched off the light and 
 sat on, staring at the blue-faced window-pane.
 
 BOOK III 
 
 FIRST BRUSH WITH 
 THE ENEMY
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 BOMANCE AND CLADGATB 
 
 YOU ought to have told me about it before, dear/' said 
 Victoria. "You knew how simply thrttled I'd be." 
 
 Millie and Victoria were sitting in low chairs near the band. 
 In front of them was the sea walk along whose grassy surface 
 people passed and repassed beyond the grass a glittering, 
 sparkling sea of blue and gold : above their heads a sky of stain- 
 less colour. In rows to right and left of them serried ranks of 
 deck-chairs were packed together and every chair contained a 
 more-or-less human being. The band could be heard now rising 
 above the chatter, now falling out of sight altogether as though 
 the bandsmen were plunged two or three times a minute into a 
 deep pit, there to cool and reflect a little before swinging up 
 again. 
 
 It was so hot and glittering a day that every one was happy 
 hysterically so, perhaps, because the rain was certain to return, 
 so that they were an army holding a fort that they knew they 
 were not strong enough to defend for long. There were boats 
 like butterflies on the sea, and every once and again an aeroplane 
 throbbed above the heads of the visitors and reminded them that 
 they were living in the twentieth century. 
 
 Millie, who adored the sun and was in the nature of things 
 almost terribly happy, drew the eyes of every passer-by towards 
 her. She was conscious of this as she was conscious of her 
 health, her happiness, her supreme confidence in eternal benevo- 
 lence, her charity to all the world. Victoria had been, before 
 Millie made her confession, in a state of delight with her clothes, 
 her hat, her parasol, her publicity and her digestion. Millie's 
 news threw her into an oddly confused state of delight, trepida- 
 
 175
 
 176 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 tion and self-importance. She thrilled to the knowledge that 
 there was a wonderful romance going on at her very side, but it 
 would mean, perhaps, that she would lose Millie, and she thought 
 it, on the whole, rather impertinent of Mr. Baxter. It hurt her, 
 too, that this should have existed for weeks at her side and that 
 she should have noticed nothing of it. 
 
 "Oh, my Millie, you should have told me !" she cried. 
 
 "I would have told you at once/' said Millie, "but Bunny 
 wanted us to be quiet about it for a week or two, until his mother 
 returned from Scotland." 
 
 "But you could have told me," continued Victoria. "I'm so 
 safe and never tell anything. And why should Mr. Baxter keep 
 it quiet as though he were ashamed of it?" 
 
 "I know," said Millie. "I didn't want him to. I hate 
 secrecy and plots and mysteries. And so I told him. But it 
 was only for a week or two. And his mother comes down from 
 Scotland on Friday." 
 
 "Well, I hope it will be a long engagement, darling, so that 
 you may be quite sure before you do it. I remember a cousin 
 of ours meeting a girl at tea in our house, proposing to her 
 before he'd had his second cup, marrying her next morning at 
 a registry office and separating from her a week later. He took 
 to drink after that and married his cook, and now he has ten 
 children and not a penny." 
 
 The music rose into a triumphant proclamation of Sir Wil- 
 liam Gilbert's lyric concerning "Captain Sure," and Victoria 
 discovered two friends of hers from the hotel, sitting quite close 
 to her and very friendly indeed. 
 
 Although they had been at Cladgate so short a time Victoria 
 had acquired a large and various circle of new acquaintances, a 
 circle very different indeed from the one that filled the house in 
 Cromwell Road. Millie was amused to see how swiftly 
 Victoria's wealth enabled her to change from one type of human 
 to another. No New Art in Cladgate! No, indeed. Mostly 
 very charming, warm-hearted people with no nonsense about 
 them. Millie also perceived that so soon as any human creature 
 floated into the atmosphere of Victoria's money it changed like 
 a chameleon. However ungrasping and unacquisitive it may 
 have hitherto been, the consciousness that now with a little gush
 
 KOMANCE AKD CLADGATE 177 
 
 and patience it might obtain something for nothing had an 
 astonishing effect. 
 
 All Victoria desired was to be loved, and by as many people 
 as possible. Within a week the whole of visiting Cladgate 
 adored her. It adored her so much that it was willing to eat 
 her food, sit in her car, allow itself to be taken to the theatre 
 free of expense, and make little suggestions about possible gifts 
 that would be gratefully received. 
 
 All that was requested of it in return was that it should praise 
 Victoria to her face and allow her to exercise her power of 
 command. 
 
 Millie did not think the worse of human nature for this. She 
 perceived that in these strange times when prices were so high 
 and incomes so low any one would do anything for money. A 
 certain Captain Blatt a cheerful gentleman of any age from 
 thirty to fifty was quite frank with her about it. "I waa 
 quite a normal man before the war, Miss Trenchard. I was, 1 
 assure you. Stockbroking in the City and making enough to 
 have a good time. Now I'm making nothing and I would do 
 anything for money. Anything. Let some one offer me a 
 thousand pounds down and I will sell my soul for three months. 
 One must exist, you know." 
 
 Victoria's happiness was touching to behold. The Blocks, the 
 Balaclavas and the rest were entirely forgotten. Millie had 
 hoped, at first, that she might do something towards stemming 
 this new tide of hungry ones. But after a warning or two she 
 saw that she was powerless. "Why, Millie," cried Victoria, 
 "you're becoming a cynic. You suspect every one. I'm sure 
 Mrs. Norman is perfectly sweet and it's too adorable of her to 
 want me to be god-mother to her new darling baby. And poor 
 Mr. Hackett! With his brother consumptive at Davos and de- 
 pending entirely upon him and his old mother nearly ninety, 
 and his business all gone to pieces because of the War, of course 
 I must help him. What's my money for?" 
 
 Meanwhile this same money poured forth like water. Would 
 it one day be exhausted? Millie wrote to Dr. Brooker and 
 asked him to keep a watch. "She's quite hopeless just now," 
 she wrote, "but we're only here for another three weeks. I sup- 
 pose we must let her have her fun while she can."
 
 178 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 Nevertheless it was upon this same beautiful afternoon that 
 she realized a more sinister and personally dangerous effect of 
 Victoria's generosity. She was sitting back in her chair, almost 
 asleep. The world came as a coloured murmur to her, the faint 
 rhythm of the band, the soft blue of sea and sky, the sharp note 
 of Victoria's voice "Oh, really!" "Fancy indeed!" "Just 
 think !" The warmth upon her body was like an encircling arm 
 caressing her very gently with the little breeze that was its 
 voice. She seemed to swing out to sea and back again, lazily, 
 lazily, too happy, too sleepy to think, fading into unreality, into 
 nothing but colour, soft blue swathes of colour wrapping her 
 round. . . . Then suddenly, with a sharp outline like a black 
 pencil drawing against a white background, she saw Bunny. 
 
 Beautifully dressed in white flannels, a straw hat pushed back 
 a little from his forehead, he stood, some way down the green 
 path, half -turned in her direction, searching amongst the chairs. 
 
 She noticed all the things about him that she loved his neat- 
 ness, his slim body, his dark eyes, sunburnt forehead, black 
 moustache, his mouth even then unconsciously half-smiling, his 
 breeding, his self-confidence. 
 
 "Ah ! how I love him \" and still swaying out to sea she, from 
 that blue distance, could adore him without fear that he would 
 hold her cheap. 
 
 "I love him, I love him " Then from the very heart of 
 
 the blue, sharply like the burst of a cracker in her ear, a sound 
 snapped "Look out! Look out! There's danger here!" 
 
 The sound was so sharp that as one does after some terrifying 
 nightmare she awoke with a clap of consciousness, sitting up in 
 her chair bewildered. Had some one spoken? Had an aero- 
 plane swooped suddenly down? Had she really slept? Every- 
 thing now was close upon her, pressing her in the metallic 
 clash of the band, the voices, the brush of incessant footsteps 
 upon the grass, and Bunny was coming towards her now, his eyes 
 lit. . . . Had some one spoken? 
 
 Greetings were exchanged. Victoria could not say very 
 jnuch. She could only press his hand and murmur, "I'm so 
 glad Millie has told me. Bless you both !" 
 
 He smiled, was embarrassed, and carried Millie off for a
 
 KOMANCE AND CLADGATE 179 
 
 walk. As soon as they had gone a little way he burst out, "Oh, 
 Mill, why did you ? I asked you not to." 
 
 "I couldn't help it. I warned you that I hate concealment. 
 I'm very sorry, Bunny, but I can't keep it secret any longer." 
 
 She looked up and saw to her amazement that he was angry. 
 His face was puckered and he looked ten years older. 
 
 "Have you told any one else ?" 
 
 "Only my mother and a great friend." 
 
 "Friend? What friend?" 
 
 "A great friend of Henry's yes and of mine too," she burst 
 out laughing. "You needn't worry, Bunny. He's a dear old 
 thing, but he's well over forty and I've never been in the least 
 in love with him." 
 
 "He is with you, I suppose ?" 
 
 Strangely his words made her heart beat a little faster. 
 Strange because what did she care whether Peter were in love 
 with her or no? And yet it was nice, even now when she was 
 swallowed up by her love for Bunny, it was pleasant to think that 
 Peter did care cared a little. 
 
 "Oh, he looks on me and Henry as in the schoolroom still." 
 
 "Then why did you tell him about us?" 
 
 "1 don't know. What does it matter?" 
 
 "It matters just this much that I asked you not to tell any- 
 body and you've told every one in sight." 
 
 "Well, I'm like that. I did keep it for three or four weeks, 
 but I hate being deceitful. I'm proud of you and proud of 
 your caring for me. I want people to know. Of course if 
 there were any real reason for keeping it secret " 
 
 "There is a real reason. I told you. My mother " 
 
 "She's coming back on Friday, so it doesn't matter now, 
 telling people." 
 
 "But it does matter. People talk so." 
 
 "But why shouldn't they talk? There's nothing to be 
 ashamed of in our being engaged." 
 
 He said nothing and they walked along in an uncomfortable 
 silence. Then she turned to him, putting her hand through his 
 arm. 
 
 "Now, look here, Bunny. We're not going to have a quarrel. 
 And if we are going to have a quarrel, I must know what if s
 
 180 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 about. Everything must be straight between us, always. I 
 can't bear your not telling me what you're thinking. I'm sen- 
 sible, I can stand anything if you'll only tell me. Is there any 
 other reason besides your mother why you don't want people to 
 know that we're engaged ?" 
 
 "No, of course not only. . . . Well, it looks so silly seeing 
 that we have no money and " 
 
 "What does it matter what people say ? We know, you and I, 
 that you're going to have a job soon. We can manage on a 
 very little at first " 
 
 "It isn't that " He suddenly smiled, looking young and 
 
 happy again. He pressed her arm against his side. "Look 
 here, Millie as you've let the cat out of the bag, the least you 
 can do is to help about the money side of things." 
 
 "Help? Of course I will." 
 
 "Well, then why not work old Victoria for a trifle? She's 
 rolling in wealth and just chucks it round on all sorts of rotten 
 people who don't care about her a damn. She's devoted to you. 
 I'm sure she'd settle something on us if you asked her." 
 
 Millie stared at him. 
 
 "Live on Victoria! Ask her for money? Oh, Bunny! I 
 couldn't " 
 
 "Why not ? Everyone does people who aren't half so fond of 
 her as you are." 
 
 "Ask her to support us when we're young and Bunny, what 
 an awful idea. Please " 
 
 "Eot! Sometimes I think, Millie, you've lived in a wood all 
 your days. Everyone does it these times. We're all pirates. 
 She's got more than she knows what to do with we haven't any., 
 She likes you better than any one. You've been working for 
 her like a slave." 
 
 Millie moved away a little. 
 
 "You can put that out of your head, Bunny once and for 
 alL I shall never ask Victoria for a penny." 
 
 "If you don't, I will." 
 
 "If you do, I'll never speak to you again." 
 
 "Very well, then, don't." Before she could answer he had 
 turned and was walking rapidly away, his head up, his shoulders 
 set.
 
 KOMANCE AND CLADGATE 181 
 
 Instantly misery swooped down upon her like an evil, mon- 
 strous bird that covered the sky, blotting out the sun with its 
 black wings. Misery and incomprehension ! So swiftly had 
 the world changed that when the familiar figures the men and 
 the women so casual and uncaring came back to her vision 
 they had no reality to her, but were like fragments of coloured 
 glass shaking in and out of a kaleidoscope pattern. She was 
 soon sitting beside Victoria again. 
 
 She said : "Why, dear, where is Mr. Baxter ?" 
 
 And Millie said : "He had to go back to the hotel for some- 
 thing." 
 
 But Victoria just now was frying other fish. She had at her 
 side Angela Compton, her newest and greatest friend. She had 
 known Angela for a week and Angela had, she said, given a new 
 impulse to her life. Miss Compton was a slim woman with 
 black hair, very black eyebrows and red cheeks. Her features 
 seemed to be painted on wood and her limbs too moved jerkily 
 to support the doll-like illusion. But she was not a doll; oh 
 dear, no, far from it ! In their first half -hour together she told 
 Millie that what she lived for was adventure "And I have 
 them !" she cried, her black eyes flashing. "I have them all the 
 time. It is an extraordinary thing that I can't move a yard 
 without them." It was her desire to be the centre of every 
 party, and thoroughly to attain this enviable position she was 
 forced, so Millie very quickly suspected, to invent tales and 
 anecdotes when the naked truth failed her. She had been to 
 Cladgate on several other summers and was able, therefore, to 
 bristle with personal anecdotes. "Do you see that man over 
 there?" she would deliciously whisper. "The one with the 
 high collar and the side-whiskers. He looks as though butter 
 wouldn't melt in his mouth, but one evening last summer as I 
 
 was coming in " or "That girl ! My dear. . . . Drugs oh ! 
 
 I know it for a fact. Terribly sad, isn't it? But I happen to 
 have seen " 
 
 All these tales she told with the most innocent intentions in 
 the world, being one, as she often assured her friends, who 
 wouldn't hurt a fly. Victoria believed every word that fell from 
 her lips and adored to believe. 
 
 To-day she was the greatest comfort to Millie. She could sit
 
 182 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 there in her misery and gather around her Angela's little 
 scandals as protection. 
 
 "Oh, but it can't be !" Victoria would cry, her eyes shining. 
 
 "Oh, of course, if you don't want to believe me ! I saw him 
 staring at me days before. At last he spoke to me. We were 
 quite alone at the moment, and I said: 'Really I'm very sorry, 
 but I don't know you/ 
 
 "'Give me just five minutes,' he begged, 'that's all I ask. 
 If you knew what it would mean to me.' And, I knowing all 
 the time, my dear, about the awful things he'd been doing to 
 his wife I let him go on for a little while, and then very quietly 
 I said " 
 
 Millie stared in front of her. The impulse that she was 
 fighting was to run after him, to find him anywhere, anywhere, 
 to tell him that she was sorry, that it had been her fault . . . 
 just to have his hand in hers again, to see his eyes kindly, af- 
 fectionate, never, never again that fierce hostility as though he 
 hated her and were a stranger to her, another man whom she did 
 not know and had never seen before. 
 
 "Of course I don't blame him for drinking. After all there 
 have been plenty of people before now who have found that too 
 much for them, but before everybody like that! All I know is 
 that his brother-in-law came up (mind you that is all in the 
 strictest confidence, and ) and said before every one " 
 
 But why should she go to him ? He had been in the wrong. 
 That he should be like the others and want to plunder Victoria, 
 poor Victoria whom she was always defending. . . . 
 
 The band played "God Save the King." Slowly they all 
 walked towards the hotel. 
 
 "Yes, that's the woman I mean," said Miss Compton. "Over 
 there in the toque. You wouldn't think it to look at her, would 
 you? But I assure you " 
 
 Millie crept like a wounded bird into the hotel. He was 
 waiting for her. He dragged her into a corner behind a palm. 
 
 "Millie, I didn't mean it I don't know what I was about. 
 Forgive me, darling. You must, you must. . . . I'm a brute, 
 a cad. . . ." 
 
 Forgive him? Happiness returned in warm floods of light 
 and colour. Happiness. But even as he kissed her it was not, 
 she knew, happiness of quite the old kind no, not quite.
 
 KOMANCE AND CLADGATE 183 
 
 n 
 
 Ellen was coming. Very soon. In two days. Millie did 
 not know why it was that she should tremble apprehensively. 
 She was not one to tremble before anything, but it was an 
 honest fact that she was more truly frightened of Ellen than 
 of any one she had ever met. There was something in Ellen 
 that frightened her, something secret and hidden. 
 
 Then of course Ellen would be nasty about Bunny. She had 
 been already nasty about him, but she had not been aware then 
 of the engagement. And in some strange way Millie was more 
 afraid now of what Ellen would say about Bunny than she had 
 been before that little quarrel of a day or two ago. 
 
 Millie, in spite of herself, thought of that little quarrel. Of 
 course all lovers must have quarrels quarrels were the means 
 by which lovers came to know one another better but he should 
 not have gone off like that, should not have hurt her. . . . 
 She could not as she would wish declare it to have been all her 
 own fault. Well, then, Bunny was not perfect. Who had ever 
 said that he was? Who was perfect when you came to that? 
 Millie herself was far from perfect. But she wanted him to be 
 honest. At that stage in her development she rated honesty 
 very highly among the virtues not unpleasant, stupid, so-called 
 honesty, where you told your friends frankly what you thought 
 of them for your own pleasure and certainly not theirs, but 
 honesty among friends so that you knew exactly where you were. 
 It was not honest of Bunny to be nice to Victoria in order to 
 get money out of her but Millie was beginning to perceive that 
 Victoria, good, kind and foolish as she was, was a kind of 
 plague-spot in the world, infecting everyone who came near her. 
 Even Millie herself . . . ? 
 
 And with this half -formed criticism of Bunny there came most 
 curiously a more urgent physical longing for him. Before, 
 when he had seemed so utterly perfect, the holding of hands, 
 kisses, embraces could wait. Everything was so safe. But now 
 was everything so safe? If they could quarrel like that at a 
 moment's notice, and he could look suddenly as though he hated 
 her, were they so safe? Bunny himself was changing a little. 
 He was always wanting to kiss her, to lead her into dark
 
 184 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 corners, to tell her over and over again that he adored her. 
 Their love in these last days had lost some fine quality of 
 sobriety and restraint that it had possessed at first. 
 
 There was something in the air of Cladgate with its brass 
 bands, its over-dressed women, its bridge and its dancing. 
 
 It is not to be supposed, however, that Millie worried herself 
 very much. Only dimly behind her the sky had changed, thick- 
 ening ever so slightly. Her sense of enchantment was not 
 pierced. 
 
 Ellen arrived and was too sweet for any words. 
 
 In a letter to Henry, Millie wrote : 
 
 . . . and do you ever feel, I wonder, that our paths are crossing 
 all the time? It is, I suppose, because we have always been so 
 much together and have done everything together. But I see 
 everything so vividly that it is exactly as though I had been there 
 Buncombe and the thick woods and the little chapel and the 
 deserted rooms and the boxwood garden. All this here is the very 
 opposite, of course, and yet simply the other half of a necessary 
 whole perhaps. Aren't I getting philosophical? Only I should 
 hate to think that all that you are sharing in now is going out 
 of the world and all this ugliness of mine remains. But of course 
 it won't, and it's up to us, Henry, to see that it doesn't. 
 
 Meanwhile, Ellen has arrived and is at present like one of those 
 sugar mice that you buy at the toy-shop simply too sweet for 
 words. Poor thing, all she needs is for some one to love her pas- 
 sionately and she'll never, never get it. She's quite ready to love 
 some one else passionately and to snatch what she can out of that, 
 but she isn't made for passion she's so bony and angular and 
 suspicious, and is angry so easily. 
 
 I begged Victoria not to say anything about the engagement 
 at present and she hasn't, although it hurts her terribly to keep 
 it in. /s'nt it silly to be afraid of Ellen ? But I do so hate scenes. 
 So many people seem to like them. Mother cured us of wanting 
 them. 
 
 I'm dancing my legs off. Yesterday, I'm ashamed to say, I 
 danced all a lovely afternoon. The Syncopated Orchestra here 
 is heavenly, and Bunny says I two-step better than any one he's 
 ever known. 
 
 Meanwhile, under the dancing and the eating and the dress- 
 ing-up, there's the strangest feeling of unrest. Yesterday there 
 was a Bolshevik meeting near the bandstand. Luckily there was 
 a football match (very important Cladgate v. Margate) and 
 all the supposed Bolshies went to that instead. Aren't we a funny
 
 KOMANCE AND CLADGATE 185 
 
 country? Victoria's very happy, dressing and undressing, taking 
 people out in the car and buying things she doesn't want. She 
 plays bridge very badly and was showing signs of interest in 
 Spiritualism. They have seances in the hotel every night, and 
 Victoria went to one last evening and was fortunately fright- 
 ened out of her life. Some one put a hand on her bare shoulder 
 and she made such a fuss that they had to break up the seance. 
 Give my love to Peter if you see him. He wrote me a sweet little 
 letter about the engagement. . . . 
 
 That which Millie had said about her consciousness of 
 Henry's world was very true. It seemed to her that his life and 
 experience was always intermingling with hers, and one could 
 not possibly be complete without the other. Now, for instance, 
 Ellen was the connecting link. Ellen, one could see at once, 
 did not belong to Cladgate, with its materialism, snobbery and 
 self-satisfaction. Cross old maid though you might call her, 
 she had power and she had passion; moreover she was restless, 
 in search of something that she would never find perhaps, but 
 the search was the thing. That was Henry's world dear, 
 pathetic, stumbling Henry, with his fairy princess straight out 
 of Hans Andersen, and the wicked witch and the cottage built 
 of sugar all this, as Millie felt assured, to vanish with the crow 
 of the cock, but to leave Henry (and here was what truly 
 distinguished him from his fellows) with his vision captured, 
 the vision that was more important than the reality. Ellen was 
 one of the midway figures (and the world has many of them, 
 discontented, aspiring, frustrated) who serve to join tbe Dream 
 and the Business. 
 
 Unhappy they may be, but they have their important use and 
 are not the least valuable part of God's creation. See Ellen in 
 her black, rather dingy frock striding about the corridors of the 
 Cladgate hotel, and you were made uncomfortably to think of 
 things that you would rather forget. 
 
 During her first days she was delighted with Cladgate and 
 everything and everybody in it. Then the rain came back and 
 danced upon the glass roofs and* jazz bands screamed from 
 floor to floor, and every one sat under the palms in pairs. There 
 was no one to sit with Ellen; she did not play bridge, she did 
 not dance. She was left alone. Millie tried to be kind to her
 
 186 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 when she remembered, but it was Ellen's fate to be forgotten. 
 
 One evening, just as Millie was going to bed, Ellen came into 
 the room. She stood by the door glowering. 
 
 "I'm going back to London to-morrow," she announced. 
 
 "Oh, Ellen, why? I thought you were enjoying yourself so 
 much." 
 
 "I'm miserable here. Nobody wants me." 
 
 "Oh, but you're wrong. I " 
 
 She strode across to Millie's dressing-table. "No, you don't. 
 Don't lie about it. Do you think I haven't eyes ?" 
 
 Suddenly she sank on to the floor, burying her head in 
 Millie's lap, bursting into desperate crying. 
 
 "Oh, I'm so lonely so miserable. Why did I ever come 
 here? Nobody wants me. They'd rather I was dead. . . .- 
 They say work find work, they say. What are you doing 
 thinking about love with your plain face and ugly body ? This 
 is the Twentieth Century, they say, the time for women like 
 you. Every woman's free now. Free? How am I free? 
 Work? What work can I do? I was never trained to any- 
 thing. I can't even write letters decently. When I work the 
 others laugh at me I'm so slow. I want some one to love 
 some one, something. I can't keep even a dog because Victoria 
 doesn't like dogs. . . . Millie, be kind to me a little let me 
 love you a little, do things for you, run messages, anything. 
 
 You're so beautiful. Every one loves you. Give me a little. 
 n 
 
 
 
 Millie comforted her as best she might She stroked her hair 
 and kissed her, petted her, but, as before, in her youth and con- 
 fidence she felt some contempt for Ellen. 
 
 "Get up," she whispered. "Ellen, dear, don't kneel like that. 
 Please. . . . Please." 
 
 Ellen got up. 
 
 "You do your best. You want to be kind. But you're young. 
 You can't understand. One day, perhaps, you'll know better," 
 and she went away. 
 
 Was it Ellen or the daily life of Cladgate that was beginning 
 to throttle Millie? She should have been so happy, but now a 
 cloud had come. She suddenly distrusted life, hearing whispers
 
 ROMANCE AND CLADGATE 187 
 
 down the corridors, seeing heads close together, murmurs under 
 that horrible, hateful band-music. . . . 
 
 Why was everyone conspiring towards ugliness? On a 
 beautiful morning, after a night of bad and disturbed dreams, 
 she awoke very early, and going down to the pebbled beach below 
 the hotel she was amazed by the beauty on every side of her. 
 The sea turned lazily over like a cat in the sun, purring, asking 
 for its back to be scratched ; a veil of blue mist hung from earth 
 to heaven; the grey sea-wall, at midday so hard and grim, was 
 softly purple ; the long grass sward above her head sparkling in 
 the dew was unsoiled by the touch of any human being; no 
 sound at all save suddenly a white bird rising, floating like a 
 sigh, outlined against the blue like a wave let loose into mid- 
 air and the sea stroking the pebbles for love of their gleaming 
 smiles. 
 
 She sat under the sea-wall longing for Bunny to be there, 
 clutching her love with both hands and holding it out like a 
 crystal bowl to the sea and air for them also to enjoy. 
 
 She had a perfect hour and returned into the hotel. 
 
 in 
 
 Then Ellen discovered. She faced Millie in Victoria's sitting- 
 room, her face graven and moulded like a mask. 
 
 "So you're engaged to him after all ?" 
 
 "Yes. I would have told you before only I knew that you 
 wouldn't like it " 
 
 "Wouldn't like it ?" With a short, "What does it matter what 
 I like ? All the same you've been kind to me once or twice, and 
 for that I'm not going to see you ruining your life without 
 making an effort." 
 
 Millie flushed. She felt her anger rising as she had known 
 that it would do. Foreseeing this scene she had told herself 
 again and again that she must keep her temper when it arrived, 
 above all things keep her temper. 
 
 "Now, Ellen, please don't. I know that you don't like him, 
 but remember that it's settled now for good or bad. I'm very
 
 188 THE YOTJSTG ENCHANTED 
 
 sorry that you don't like him better, but when you know 
 
 "Know him ! Know him ? As though I didn't. But I won't 
 let it pass. Even though you never speak to me again I'll force 
 such evidence under your nose that you'll have to realize. 
 Lord ! the fools we women are ! "We talk of character and the 
 things we say we admire, and we don't admire them a bit. What 
 we want is decent legs and a smooth mouth and soft hands. I 
 thought you had some sense, a little wisdom, but you're younger 
 than any of us I despise you, Millie, for this." 
 
 Millie jumped up from the table where she had been writing. 
 
 "And what do I care, Ellen, whether you do despise me ? Who 
 are you to come and lecture me ? I've had enough of your ill- 
 temper and your scenes and all the rest of it. I don't want 
 your friendship. Go your own way and let me go mine." 
 
 Within her a voice was saying : "You'll be sorry for this after- 
 wards. You know you will. You told me you were not going 
 to lose your temper." 
 
 Ellen tarried by the door. "You can say what you like to me, 
 Millie. I'll save you from this however much you hate me for 
 it." She went out. 
 
 "I despise you, Millie, for this." The words rang in Millie's 
 head as she sat there alone, repeated themselves against her will. 
 Well, what did it matter if Ellen did despise her? Yes it did 
 matter. She had been laughing at Ellen all these weeks and 
 yet she cared for her good opinion. Her vanity was wounded. 
 She was little and mean and small. 
 
 And behind that there was something else. There had been 
 more than anger and outraged sentiment in Ellen's attitude. 
 She had meant what she said. She had something serious in 
 her mind about Bunny something that she thought she knew 
 .... something. . . . 
 
 "I'm contemptible!" Millie cried, "losing my temper with 
 Ellen like a fish-wife, then distrusting Bunny. I'm worthless." 
 She wanted to run after Ellen and beg her pardon but pride 
 restrained her. Instead she was cross with Victoria all the 
 morning. 
 
 Victoria's affairs were especially agitating to herself at this 
 time and made her uncertain in her temper and easily upset.
 
 KOMANCE AND CLADGATE 189 
 
 Out of the mist in which her many admirers obscurely floated 
 two figures had risen who were quite obviously suitors for her 
 hand. When Millie had first begun to perceive this she doubted 
 the evidence of her observation. It could not be possible that 
 any one should want to marry Victoria, stout and middle-aged as 
 she was. But on second thoughts it seemed quite the simple 
 natural thing for any adventurer to attempt. There was 
 Victoria's money, with which she quite obviously did not know 
 what to do. Why should not some one for whom youth was 
 over, whose income was an uncertain quantity, decide to spend 
 it for her ? 
 
 Millie called both these men adventurers. There she was un- 
 just. Major Miles Mereward was no adventurer ; he was simply 
 an honest soldier really attracted by Victoria. Honest, but 
 Lord, how dull ! 
 
 As he sat in Victoria's room, the chair creaking beneath his 
 fat body, his red hair rough and unbrushed, his red moustache 
 untrimmed, his red hands clutching his old grey soft hat, he was 
 the most uncomfortable, awkward, silent man Millie had ever 
 met. He had nothing to say at all; he would only stare at 
 Victoria, give utterance to strange guttural noises that were 
 negatives and affirmatives almost unborn. He was poor, but 
 he was honest. He thought Victoria the most marvellous 
 creature in the world with her gay talk and light colour. He 
 scarcely realized that she had any money. Far otherwise his 
 rival Eobin Bennett. 
 
 Mr. Bennett was a man of over forty, one who might be the 
 grandson of Byron or a town's favourite "Hamlet" "Dis- 
 tinguished" was the word always used about him. 
 
 He dressed beautifully; he moved, Victoria declared, "like a 
 picture." Not only this; he was able to talk with easy fluency 
 upon every possible subject politics, music, literature, paint- 
 ing, he had his hand upon them all. Moreover, he was adapt- 
 able. He understood just why Victoria preferred the novels 
 she did, and he was not superior to her because of her taste. 
 He knew why tears filled her eyes when the band played "Pomp 
 and Circumstance," and thought it quite natural that on such 
 an occasion she should want, as she said, "to run out and give 
 sixpences to all the poor children in the place." He did not
 
 190 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 pretend to her that her bridge-playing was good. That indeed 
 was more than even his Arts could encompass, but he did assure 
 her that she was making progress with every game she played. 
 He even tempted her in the ballroom of the hotel into the One- 
 Step and the Fox-Trot, and an amusing sight for every one it 
 was to see Victoria's flushed and clumsy efforts. 
 
 Nevertheless, it was obvious to the meanest intelligence that 
 the man was an adventurer. Every one in the hotel knew it 
 Victoria was his third target that season ; even Victoria did not 
 disguise it altogether from herself. 
 
 It was here that Millie found her touching and appealing. 
 Millie realized that this was the very first time in Victoria's life 
 that any one had made love to her; that it was her money to 
 which Bennett was making love seemed at the moment to matter 
 very little. The woman was knowing, at long last, what it 
 meant to have eyes fine, large, brown eyes gazing into here, 
 wlut it was to have her lightest word listened to with serious 
 attention, what it was would some one hasten to open the door, 
 to push forward a chair for her, to pick up her handkerchief 
 when she dropped it (a; thing that she was always now doing). 
 Mereward did none* of these things for her his- brain moved 
 too slowly to make the race a fair one. He was beaten by 
 Bennett (who deeply despised him) every time. 
 
 But Victoria was only half a fool. "Millie mine," she said, 
 "don't you find Major Mereward very restful? He's a good 
 man." 
 
 "He is indeed," said' Millie. 
 
 "Of course he hasn't Mr. Bennett's brains. I said to Mr. 
 Bennett last night, 1 can't think how it is with your brilliance 
 that you are not in the Cabinet.' ' ; 
 
 "And what did Mr. Bennett say?" asked Millie. 
 
 "Oh, that he had never cared about politics, that it wasn't a 
 gentleman's game any longer in which I'm sure he's quite 
 right. It seems a pity though. With his beautiful voice and 
 fine carriage he might have done anything. He says his lack 
 of means has always kept him back." 
 
 "I expect it has," said Millie. 
 
 She was however able to give only half a glance towardd
 
 ROMANCE AND CLADGATE 191 
 
 Victoria's interesting problem because of the increasing difficulty 
 and unexpectedness of her own. 
 
 From the very first, long before he had spoken to her on that 
 morning in the Cromwell Road, she had made with her hands a 
 figure of fair and lovely report. It might be true that also from 
 the very first she had seen that Bunny, like Roderick Hudson, 
 "evidently had a native relish for rich accessories, and appro- 
 priated what came to his hand," or, like the young man in Gal- 
 leon's Widow's Comedy, Relieved that the glories of the world 
 were by right divine his own natural property" all this she had 
 seen and it had but dressed the figure with the finer colour and 
 glow. Bunny was handsome enough and clever enough and 
 bright enough to carry off the accessories as many a more dingy 
 mortal might not do. And so, having set up her figure, she 
 proceeded to deck it with every little treasure and ornament that 
 she could find. All the little kindnesses, the unselfish thoughts, 
 the sudden impulses of affection, the thanks and the promises 
 and the ardours she collected and arranged. At first there had 
 been many of these; when Bunny was happy and things went 
 well with him he was kind and generous. 
 
 Then and especially since the little quarrel about Victoria's 
 money these occasions were less frequent. It seemed that he 
 was wanting something something that he was in a hurry to 
 get and that he had not time now for little pleasantries and 
 courtesies. His affection was not less ardent than it had been 
 it grew indeed with every hour more fierce but Millie knew 
 that he was hurrying her into insecure country and that she 
 should not go with him and that she could not stop. 
 
 The whole situation now was unsatisfactory. His mother 
 had been in London for some days but Bunny said nothing of 
 going to see her. Millie was obliged to face the fact that he 
 did not wish to tell his mother of their engagement. Every 
 morning when she woke she told herself that to-day she would 
 force it all into the daylight, would issue ultimatums and stand 
 by them, but when she met him, fear of some horrible crisis 
 held her back "Another day let me have another lovely day. 
 I will speak to him to-morrow." 
 
 She who had always been so proud and fearless was now full 
 of fear. She knew that when he was not thwarted he was still
 
 192 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 charming, ardent, affectionate, her lover and so she did not 
 thwart him. 
 
 Nothing had yet occurred that was of serious moment, the 
 things about which they differed were little things, and she let 
 them go by. He was always telling her of her beauty, and for 
 the first time in her life she knew that she was beautiful. Her 
 beauty grew amazingly during those weeks. She carried herself 
 nobly, her head high, her mouth a little ironical, her eyes 
 sparkling with the pleasure of life and the vigour of perfect 
 health, knowing that all the hotel world and indeed all Cladgate 
 was watching her and paying tribute to her beauty. 
 
 No one disputed that she was the most beautiful girl in 
 Cladgate that summer. She roused no jealousy. She was too 
 young, too simple, too natural and too kindly-hearted. 
 
 All the world could very quickly see that she was absorbed 
 by young Baxter and had no thoughts for any one but him. She 
 had no desire to snatch other young men from their triumphant 
 but fighting captors. She was of a true, generous heart; she 
 would do any one a good turn, laugh with any one, play with 
 any one, sympathize with any one. 
 
 She was not only the most beautiful, she was also the best- 
 liked girl in the place. 
 
 Perhaps because of her retired, cloistered, Trenchard up- 
 bringing she was, in spite of two years finishing in Paris, in- 
 nocent and pure of heart. She thought that she knew every- 
 thing about life, and her courage and her frankness carried her 
 through many situations before which less unsophisticated 
 women would have quailed. 
 
 It was not that she credited every one with noble characters ; 
 she thought many people foolish and weak and sentimental, but 
 she did believe that every one was fundamentally good at heart 
 and intended to make of life a fine thing. Her close com- 
 panionship with Bunny caused her for the first time to wonder 
 whether there was not another world "underground some- 
 where" of which she knew nothing whatever. It was not that 
 he told her anything or introduced her to men who would tell 
 her. He had, one must in charity to him believe, at this time at 
 any rate, a real desire to respect her innocence; but always be- 
 hind the things they did and said was this implication that he
 
 ROMANCE AND CLADGATE 193 
 
 knew so much more of life than she. Henry had often implied 
 that same knowledge, but she laughed at him. He might know 
 things that he would not tell her, but he was essentially, 
 absolutely of her own world. But Bunny was different. She 
 was a modern girl, belonging to the generation in which, at 
 last, women were to know as much, to see as much, as men. 
 She must know. 
 
 "What do you mean, Bunny?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing . . . nothing that you need know." 
 
 "But I want to know. I'm not a child " 
 
 "Kot. . . . Come and dance." She did dance, furiously, 
 ferociously. The Diamond Palace a glass-domed building at 
 the foot of the woods, just above the sea, was the place where 
 Cladgate danced. The negro band, its teeth gleaming with 
 gold, its fingers glittering with diamond rings, stamped and 
 shrieked, banged cymbals, clashed tins, thumped at drums, 
 yelled and then suddenly murmured like animals creeping back, 
 reluctantly, into the fastnesses of their jungles, and all the 
 good British citizens and citizenesses of Cladgate wandered 
 round and round with solemn ecstatic faces, their bodies pressed 
 close together, sweat gathering upon their brows; beyond the 
 glass roof the walks were dark and silent and the sea crept in 
 and out over the tiny pebbles, leaving a thin white pattern far 
 down the deserted beach. 
 
 "What do you mean, Bunny?" asked Millie. 
 
 "Oh, you'll find out soon enough," he answered her. 
 
 The glass roof sparkled above the electric light with a million 
 facets. Across the broad floor there stepped and shifted the 
 changing pattern of the human bodies; faces stared out over 
 shoulders, blank, serious, grim as though the crisis the true 
 crisis of life had at last arrived, and the band encouraged that 
 belief, softly whispering that now was the moment NOW 
 and NOW. . . . 
 
 Millie sat against the wall with Victoria ; she was waiting for 
 Bunny, who was a quarter of an hour late. She had a panic, as 
 she always had when he was late, that he would not come at all ; 
 that she would never see him again. Her dress to-night was 
 carnation colour and she had shoes of silver tissue. She had an
 
 194 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 indescribable air of youth and trembling anticipation as though 
 this were the first ball to which she had ever been. Henry 
 would have been amazed had he seen her her usually so fear- 
 less. 
 
 Her love for Bunny made her tremble because, unknown to 
 herself, she was afraid that the slightest movement from outside 
 would precipitate her into a situation that would be disastrous, 
 irrecoverable. . . . 
 
 Bunny arrived. She was in his arms and they were moving 
 slowly around the room. She saw nothing, only felt that it 
 was very hot. The negro band suddenly leapt out upon them, 
 as though bursting forth from some hidden fastness. The 
 glass roof, with its diamonds, becked and bowed, bending to- 
 ward them like a vast string to a bow. Soon it would snap and 
 where would they be? Bunny held her very close to him. 
 Their hearts were like voices jumping together, trying to catch 
 some common note with which they were both just out of tune. 
 
 The band shrieked and stopped as though it had been 
 stabbed. 
 
 They were outside, in a dark corner of the balcony that 
 looked over the sea. They kissed and clung close to one 
 another. Suddenly she was aware of an immense danger, as 
 though the grey wood beyond the glass were full of fiery eyes, 
 dangerous with beasts. 
 
 "I'm not going into that wood," she heard some voice within 
 herself cry. The band broke out again from beyond the wall. 
 
 "Oh, Bunny, let me go " She had only a moment in which 
 
 to save herself to save herself from herself. 
 
 She broke from him. She heard her dress tear. She had 
 opened the door of the balcony, was running down the iron 
 steps then, just as she was, in her carnation frock and silver 
 shoes, was hurrying down the white road, away from the wood 
 towards the hotel the safe, large, empty hotel.
 
 CHAPTEE II 
 
 LIFE, DEATH AND FRIENDSHIP 
 
 JUST at that time Henry at Buncombe was thinking very 
 much of his sister. He could not tell why, but she was 
 appearing to him constantly; he saw her three nights in his 
 dreams. In one dream she was in danger, running for her life 
 along a sea road, high above the sea. Once she was shouting to 
 him in a storm and could not make him hear because of the 
 straining and creaking of the trees. During his morning work 
 in the little library he saw her, laughing at him on the lawn 
 beyond the window Millie as she was years ago, on that day, 
 for instance, when she came back from Paris and astonished; 
 them all by her gaiety and was herself astonished by the news 
 of Katherine's unexpected engagement. He could see her now 
 in the old green drawing-room, laughing at them all and shout- 
 ing into Great-Aunt Sarah's ear-trumpet. <r Well, she's in some 
 trouble," he said to himself, looking out at the sun-flecked 
 lawn. "I'm sure she's in trouble." 
 
 He wrote to her and to his relief received a letter from her 
 on that same day. She said very little: "... Only another 
 week of this place, and I'm not sorry. These last days haven't 
 been much fun. It's so noisy and every one behaves as though 
 a moment's quiet would be the end of the world. Oh, Henry 
 darling, do come up to London soon after I get back, even if it's 
 only for a day. I'm sure your old tyrant will let you off. I 
 ache to see you and Peter again. I want you near me. I'm not 
 a bit pleased with myself. I've turned nasty lately conceited 
 and vain. You and Peter shall scold me thoroughly. Vi says 
 mother is just the same. . . ." 
 
 Well, she was all right. He was glad. He could sink back 
 once more into the strange, mysterious atmosphere of Dun- 
 combe, and call with his spirit Christina down to share the 
 
 195
 
 196 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 mystery with him. He could creep closer to Christina here 
 than real life would ever take him. 
 
 Strange and mysterious it was, and touchingly, poignantly 
 beautiful. The wet days of early August had been succeeded 
 by fine weather English fine weather that was not certain from 
 hour to hour, and gave therefore all the pleasure of unexpected 
 
 joy- 
 
 "Why! there's the sun!" they would all cry, and the towers 
 and the little square pond, and the Cupid, and the hedges cut 
 into peacocks and towers and sailing-ships, would all be caught 
 up into a sky so relentlessly blue that it surely never again 
 would be broken; in a moment, white bolster clouds came slip- 
 ping up; the oak and the mulberry tree, whose shadows had 
 been black velvet patterns on the shrill green of the grass, 
 seemed to spread out their arms beneath the threatening sky 
 as though to protect their friends from the coming storm. But 
 the storm was not there only a few heavy drops and then the 
 grey horizon changed to purple, the cloud broke like tearing 
 paper, and in a few moments the shadows were on the lawn 
 again and the water of the square pond was like bright-blue 
 glass. 
 
 In such English weather the square English house was its 
 loveliest. The Georgian wing with its old red brick, its square 
 stout windows, was material, comfortable, homely, speaking of 
 thick-set Jacobean squires and tankards of ale, dogs and horses, 
 and long pipes of heavy tobacco. The little Elizabethan wing, 
 where were the chapel and the empty rooms, touched Henry as 
 though it were alive and were speaking to him. This old part 
 of the house had in its rear two rooms that were still older, a 
 barn used now as a garage with an attic above it that was Saxon. 
 
 The house was unique for its size in England so small and 
 yet displaying so perfectly the three periods of its growth. It 
 gained also from its setting because the hills rose behind the 
 garden and the little wood like grey formless presences against 
 the sky, and on the ridge below the house the village, with cot- 
 tages of vast age and cottagers who seemed to have found the 
 secret of eternal life, slumbered through the seasons, carrying on 
 the tradition of their fathers and listening but dimly to the 
 changes that were coming upon the world beyond them. The
 
 LIFE, DEATH AND FRIENDSHIP 197 
 
 village had done well in the Wax as the cross in front of the Post 
 Office testified, but the War had changed its life amazingly little. 
 Some of its sons had gone over the ridge of hill, had seen 
 strange sights and heard strange sounds some of them had not 
 returned. . . . Prices were higher it was harder now to live 
 than it had been but not much harder. Already the new genera- 
 tion was growing up. One or two, Tom Giles the Butcher, 
 Merriweather, a farmer, talked noisily and said that soon the 
 country would be in the hands of the people. Well, was it not 
 already in the hands of the people? Anyway, they'd rather be 
 in the hands of Sir Charles than of Giles. 
 
 How were they to know that Giles' friends would be better 
 men than Sir Charles? Worse most likely. . . . 
 
 Into all this Henry sank. Among the few books in the 
 library he found several dealing with the history of the house, of 
 the Buncombes, of the district. Just as he had conjured up 
 the Edinburgh of Scott and Ballantyne, so now his head was 
 soon full of all the Buncombes of the past Giles Buncombe 
 of Henry VIII.'s time, who had helped his fat monarch to 
 persecute the monasteries and had been given the lands of 
 Saltingham Abbey near by as a reward ; Charles Buncombe, the 
 admiral who had helped to chase the Armada ; Benis Buncombe, 
 killed at Naseby; Giles Buncombe, the Second, exquisite of 
 Charles II.'s Court killed in a duel; Guy Buncombe, his son, 
 who had fled to France with James II. ; Giles the Third of Queen 
 Anne's Court, poet and dramatist ; then the two brothers, Charles 
 and Godfrey, who had joined the '45, Charles to suffer on the 
 scaffold, Godfrey to flee into perpetual exile ; then Charles again, 
 friend of Johnson and Goldsmith, writer of a bad novel called The 
 Forsaken Beauty, and a worse play which even Garrick's acting 
 could not save from being damned ; then a seaman again, Triolus 
 Buncombe, who had fought with Nelson at Trafalgar, and lost 
 an arm there; then Ponsonby Buncombe, the historian, who 
 had known Macaulay and written ior the Quarterly, and had 
 drunk tea with George Lewes and his horse-faced genius; then 
 Sir Charles's father, who had been simply a comfortable country 
 squire one of Trollope's men straight from Orley Farm and 
 The Clav&rings, who had liked his elder son, Ealph (killed 
 tiger-shooting in India), and his younger son Tom both better
 
 198 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 than the quiet, studious Charles, whom he had never under- 
 stood. All these men and their women too seemed to Henry 
 still to live in the house and haunt the gardens, to laugh above 
 the stream and walk below the trees. So quiet was the place 
 and so still that standing by the pond under the star-lit sky he 
 could swear that he heard their voices. . . . 
 
 Nevertheless the living engaged his attention sufficiently. 
 Besides Millie and Christina and Peter there were with him in 
 the house, in actual concrete form, Sir Charles and his sister. 
 Lady Bell-Hall had now apparently accepted Henry as an in- 
 evitable nuisance with whom God, for some mysterious reason 
 known only to Himself, had determined still further to try her 
 spirit. She was immensely busy here, having a thousand pre- 
 occupations connected with the house and the village that kept 
 her happy and free from many of her London alarms. Henry 
 admired her deeply as he watched her trotting about in an old 
 floppy garden-hat, ministering to, scolding, listening to, ad- 
 monishing the village as though it was one large, tiresome, but 
 very lovable family. With the servants in the house it was the 
 same thing. She knew the very smallest of their troubles, and 
 although she often irritated and fussed them, they were not 
 alone in the world as they would have been had Mrs. Giles, the 
 butcher's wife, been their mistress. 
 
 It happened then that Henry for his daily companionship de- 
 pended entirely upon Sir Charles. A strange companionship it 
 was, because the affection between them grew stronger with 
 every hour that passed, and yet there were no confidences nor 
 intimacies very little talk at all. At the back of Henry's 
 mind there was always the incident in the cab. He fancied that 
 on several occasions since that he had seen that glance of almost 
 agonizing suffering pass, flash in the eyes, cross the brow; once 
 or twice Buncombe had abruptly risen and with steps that 
 faltered a little left the room. Henry fancied also that Lady 
 Bell-Hall during the last few days had begun to watch her 
 brother anxiously. Sometimes she looked at Henry as though 
 she would question him, but she said nothing. 
 
 Then, quite suddenly, the blow fell. On a day of splendid 
 heat, the sky an unbroken blue, the fountain falling sleepily 
 behind them, bees humming among the beds near by, Dun-
 
 LIFE, DEATH AND FEIENDSHIP 199 
 
 combe and Henry were sitting on easy chairs under the oak. 
 Henry was reading, Duncombe sitting staring at the bright 
 grass and the house that swam in a haze of heat against the 
 blue sky. 
 
 "Henry/' Duncombe said, "I want to talk to you for a mo- 
 ment." 
 
 Henry put down his book. 
 
 "I want first to tell you how very grateful I am for the com- 
 panionship that you have given me during these last months and 
 for your friendship." 
 
 Henry stammered and blushed. "I've been wanting " he 
 said, "been wanting myself a long time to say something to you. 
 I suppose that day when I had done the letters so badly and 
 you you still kept me on was the most important thing that 
 ever happened to me. $~o one before has ever believed I could 
 do anything or seen what it was I could do I always lacked 
 self-confidence and you gave it me. The War had destroyed the 
 little I'd had before, and if you hadn't come I don't know " 
 
 He broke off, feeling, as he always did, that he could say none 
 of the things that he really meant to say, and being angry with 
 himself for his own stupidity. 
 
 "I'm very glad," Duncombe said, "if I've done that. I think 
 you have a fine future before you if you do the things you're 
 really suited for which you will do, of course. But I'm going 
 to trust you still further. I know I can depend on your dis- 
 cretion " 
 
 "If there's anything in the world " Henry began eagerly. 
 
 "It's nothing very difficult," Duncombe said, still smiling; 
 "I am in all probability going to have a serious operation. If s 
 not quite settled I shall know after a further examination. 
 But it is almost certain. . . . 
 
 "There are definite chances that I shall not live through it 
 the chances of my surviving or not are about equal, I believe. 
 I'll tell you frankly that if I were to think only of myself, 
 death is infinitely preferable to the pain that I have suffered 
 during the last six months. It was when the pain became 
 serious that I determined to hurry up those family papers that 
 you are now working on. I had an idea that I might not have 
 much time left and I wanted to find somebody who could carry
 
 200 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 them on. ... Well, I have found somebody," he said, turning 
 towards Henry and smiling his slightly cynical smile. "In my 
 Will I have left you a certain sum that will support you at -any 
 rate for the next three years, and directions that the book ia 
 to be left entirely in your hands. ... I know that you will do 
 your best for it." 
 
 Henry's words choked in his throat. He saw the bright grass 
 and the red dazzled house through a mist of tears. He wanted, 
 at that moment above all, to be practical, a hard, common-sense 
 man of the world but of course as usual he had no power to be 
 what he wanted. 
 
 "Yes . . . my best . . ." he stammered. 
 
 "Then, what I mean is this," Buncombe continued. "If you 
 do that you will still have some relations with my family, with 
 my brother and sister, I mean. He paused, then continued 
 looking in front of him as though for the moment he had for- 
 gotten Henry. "When I first knew that my illness was serious 
 I felt that I could not leave all this. I had no other feeling for 
 the time but that, that I must stay here and see this place 
 safely through these difficult days . . ." He paused again, then 
 looked straight across to Henry. 
 
 "I have not forgotten what happened in London in the library 
 the other day. You will probably imagine from that that my 
 brother is a very evil person. He is not, only impulsive, short- 
 sighted and not very clever at controlling his feelings. He haa 
 an affection for me but none at all for this place, and as soon as 
 he inherits it he will sell it. 
 
 "It is that knowledge that is hardest now for me to bear. 
 Tom is reckless with money, reckless with his affections, reckless 
 with everything, but he is not a mean man. He came into the 
 library that day to get some papers that he knew he should 
 not have rather as a schoolboy might go to the cupboard and try 
 to steal jam, but you will find when you meet him again that he 
 bears no sort of malice and will indeed have forgotten the whole 
 thing. My sister too of course she is rather foolish and can't 
 adapt herself to the new times, but she is a very good woman, 
 utterly unselfish, and would die for Tom and myself without a 
 moment's hesitation. If I go, be a help to her, Henry. She 
 doesn't know you now at all, but she will later on, and you can
 
 LIFE, DEATH AND FRIENDSHIP 201 
 
 show her that things are not so had that life doesn't change, 
 that people are as they always were certainly no worse, a little 
 better perhaps. To her, the world seems to be suddenly filled 
 with ravening wolves Poor Meg!" 
 
 His voice died away. . . . Again he was looking at the house 
 and the sparkling lawn. 
 
 "To lose this ... to let it go After all these years." 
 
 There was a long silence. Only the doves cooing from the 
 gay-tiled roof seemed to be the voice, crooning and satisfied of 
 the summer afternoon. 
 
 "And that/' said Duncombe, suddenly waking from his rev- 
 erie, "is another idea that I have had. I feel as though you are 
 going to be of importance in your new generation and that you 
 will have influence. Even though I shall lose this place I shall 
 be able to continue it in a way, perhaps, if I can make you feel 
 that the past is not dead, that it must go on with its beauty and 
 pathos influencing, interpenetrating the present. You young 
 ones will have the world to do with as you please. Our time is 
 done. But don't think that you can begin the world again as 
 though nothing had ever happened before. There is all that 
 loveliness, that beauty, longing to be used. The lessons that 
 you are to learn are the very same lessons that generation after 
 generation has learnt before you. Take the past which is be- 
 seeching you not to desert it and let it mingle with the present. 
 Don't let modern cleverness make you contemptuous of all that 
 has gone before you. They were as clever as you in their own 
 generation. This beauty, this history, this love that has sunk 
 into these walls and strengthened these trees, carry these on with 
 you as your companions. ... I love it so ... and I have to 
 leave it. To know that it will go to strangers . . ." 
 
 Henry said: "I'll never forget this place. It will influence 
 all my life." 
 
 "Well, then," Duncombe shook his head almost impatiently, 
 "I've done enough preaching . . . nonsense perhaps. It seems 
 to me now important. Soon, if the pain returns, only that will 
 matter." 
 
 They sat for a long time in silence. The shadows of the trees 
 spread like water across the lawn. The corners of the garden 
 were purple shaded.
 
 202 T:EE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 "God ! Is there a God, do you think, Henry?" 
 
 "Yes," he answered. "I think there is One, but of what kind 
 He is I don't know." 
 
 "There must ba . . . There must be. ... To go out like 
 this when one's heart and soul are at their strongest. And He 
 is loving, I can't but fancy. He smiles, perhaps, at the im- 
 portance that we give to death and to pain. So short a time it 
 must seem to Him that we are here. . . . But if He isn't. . . . 
 
 If there is nothing more What a cruel, cold game for 
 
 Something to play with us " 
 
 Henry knew then that Buncombe was sure he would not sur- 
 vive the operation. An aching longing to do something for him 
 held him, but a power greater than either of them had caught 
 him and he could only sit and stare at the colours as they came 
 flocking into the garden with the evening sky, at the white line 
 that was suddenly drawn above the garden wall, at two stars 
 that were thrown like tossed diamonds into the branches of the 
 mulberry. 
 
 "Yes I know God exists/' something that was not Henry's 
 body whispered. 
 
 "God must exist to explain all the love that there is in the 
 world," he said. 
 
 "And all the hatred too," Buncombe answered, looking up- 
 ward at the two stars. "Why do we hate one another? Why 
 all this temper and scorn, sport and cruelty? Men want to do 
 right almost every man and woman alive. And the rules are 
 so simple fidelity, unselfishness, loving, kindliness, humility 
 but we can't manage them except in little spurts. . . . But then 
 why should they be there at all ? All the old questions !" He 
 broke oft*. "Come, let us go in. If s cold." He got up and 
 took Henry's arm. They walked slowly across the lawn to- 
 gether. 
 
 "Henry," he said, "remember to expect nothing very wonder- 
 ful of men. Remember that they don't change, but that they 
 are all in the same box together so love them. Love them 
 whenever you can, not dishonestly, because you think it a pretty 
 thing to do, but honestly, because you can't help yourself. 
 Bon't condemn. Bon't be impatient because of their weak- 
 nesses. That has been the failure of my life. I have been so
 
 LIFE, DEATH AKD FRIENDSHIP 203 
 
 badly disappointed again and again that I retired into myself, 
 would not let them touch me and so I lost them. But you 
 are different you are idealistic. Don't lose that whatever fool- 
 ish things you may be dragged into. It seems to me so simple 
 now that the end of everything has come and it is too late love 
 of man, love of God even if He does not exist, love of work 
 humility because the time is so short and we are all so weak." 
 
 By the door he stopped, dropping his voice. "Be patient with 
 my sister to-night. I am going to tell her about my affair. It 
 will distress her very much. Assure her that it is unimportant, 
 will soon be right. Poor Meg !" 
 
 He pressed Henry's arm and went forward alone into the dark 
 house. 
 
 But how tiresome it is! That very same evening Henry, 
 filled with noble thoughts and a longing for self-sacrifice, was aa 
 deeply and as childishly irritated by the events of the evening 
 and by Lady Bell-Hall as he had ever been. In the first place, 
 when he was dressing and had just found a clean handkerchief 
 and was ready to go downstairs, the button-hole of his white 
 shirt burst under his collar and he was forced to undress again 
 and was ten minutes late downstairs. 
 
 He saw at once that Duncombe had told his sister the news. 
 Henry had been prepared to show a great tenderness, a fine 
 nobility, a touching fatherliness to the poor frightened lady. 
 But Lady Bell-Hall was not frightened, she was merely querul- 
 ous, with a drop of moisture at the end of her nose and a cross 
 look down the table at Henry as though he were to-night just 
 more than she could bear. It was also hard that on this night 
 of all nights there should be that minced beef that Henry always 
 found it difficult to encounter. It was not so much that the 
 mince was cooked badly, and what was worse, meanly and 
 baldly, but that it stood as a kind of symbol for all that wag 
 mistaken in Lady Bell-Hall's housekeeping. 
 
 She was a bad housekeeper, and thoroughly complacent over 
 her incompetence, and it was this incompetence that irritated 
 Henry. Somehow to-night there should have been a gracious 
 offering of the very best the place could afford, with some 
 silence, some resignation, some gentle evidence of affection. But
 
 204 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 it was not so. Buncombe was his old cynical self, with no sign 
 whatever of the afternoon's mood. 
 
 Only for a moment after dinner in the little grey drawing- 
 room, when Duncombe had left them alone and Henry was 
 seated reading Couperas and Lady Bell-Hall opposite to him 
 was knitting her interminable stockings, was there a flash of 
 something. She looked up suddenly and across at him. 
 
 "I learn from my brother that he has told you?" she said, 
 blinking her eyes that were always watering at him. 
 
 "Yes," said Henry. 
 
 "He tells me that it is nothing serious," her voice quavered. 
 
 "No, no," Henry half started up, his book dropping on to the 
 floor. "Indeed, Lady Bell-Hall, it isn't. He hopes it will be 
 all right in a week or two." 
 
 "Yes, yes," she answered, rather testily, as though she re- 
 sented his fancying that he knew more about her brother's case 
 than she herself did. "But operations are always dangerous." 
 
 "I had an operation once " began Henry, then seeing that 
 
 her eyes were busy with her knitting again he stopped. Never- 
 theless her little pink cheeks were shaking and her little ob- 
 stinate chin trembled. He could see that she was doing all that 
 she could to keep herself from tears. He could fancy herself 
 saying: "Well, I'm not going to let that tiresome young man 
 see me cry." But touched as he was impetuously whenever he 
 saw any one in distress, he began again "Why, when I had an 
 operation once " 
 
 "Thank you/' she said to her knitting, "I don't think we'll 
 talk about it if you don't mind." 
 
 He picked up his book again. 
 
 Next morning Henry asked for leave to go up to London for 
 two days. He had been possessed, driven, tormented during the 
 last week by thoughts of Christina, and in some mysterious way 
 his talk with Duncombe in the garden had accentuated his 
 longing. All that he wanted was to see her, to assure himself 
 that she was not, as she always seemed to him when he waa 
 away from her, a figure in a dream, something imagined by 
 him, more lovely, more perfect than anything he could read of 
 or conceive, and yet belonging to the world of poetry, of his own 
 imagined fictions, of intangible and evasive desires.
 
 LIFE, DEATH AND FRIENDSHIP 205 
 
 It VT&B always this impulse that drore him back to her, the 
 impulse to make sure that she was of flesh and blood eton 
 though, as he was now beginning to realize, that same form and 
 body were never destined to be his. 
 
 He had other reasons for going. Books in the library of the 
 London house had to be consulted, and Millie would now be in 
 Cromwell Road again. Buncombe at once gave him permission. 
 
 Going up in the train, staring out of the window, Henry tried 
 to bring his thoughts into some sort of definite order. He was 
 always trying to do this, plunging his hands into a tangle, break- 
 ing through here, pulling others straight, trying to find a pat- 
 tern that would give it all a real symmetry. The day suited 
 his thoughts. The beautiful afternoon of yesterday had been 
 perhaps the last smile of a none too generous summer. To-day 
 autumn was in the air, mists curled up from the fields, clouds 
 hung low against a pale watery blue, leaves were turning red 
 once again, slowly falling through the mist with little gestures 
 of dismay. What he wanted, he felt, thinking of Christina, of 
 Duncombe, of Millie, of his work, of his mother, lying without 
 motion in that sombre house, of his own muddle of generosities 
 and selfishness and tempers and gratitudes, was not so much to 
 find a purpose in it all (that was perhaps too ambitious), but 
 simply to separate one side of life from the other. 
 
 He saw them continually crossing, these two sides, not only 
 in his own life, but in every other. One was the side of daily 
 life, of his work for Duncombe, of money and business and Mr. 
 King's bills, and stomach-ache and having a good night's sleep, 
 and what the Allies were going to do about Vienna, and whether 
 the Bolsheviks would attack Poland next spring or no. Millie 
 and Peter both belonged to this world and the Three Graces, and 
 the trouble that he had to keep his clothes tidy, and whether any 
 one yet had invented sock-suspenders that didn't fall down in 
 a public place and yet didn't give you varicose veins and if 
 not why not. 
 
 The other world could lightly be termed the world of the 
 Imagination, and yet it was so much more, so much more than 
 that. Christina belonged to it absolutely, and so did her hor- 
 rible mother and the horrible old man Mr. Leishman. So did 
 his silly story at Chapter XV., so did the old Duncombe letters,
 
 206 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 so did the place Buncombe, so did Piccadilly Circus in certain 
 moods, and the whole of London on certain days. So did many 
 dreams that he had (and he did not want Mr. Freud, thank you, 
 to explain them away for him) , so did all his thoughts of Garth- 
 in-Roselands and Glebeshire, so did the books of Galleon and 
 Hans Andersen, and the author of Lord Jim, and la Motte, 
 Fouqu6, and nearly all poetry; so did the voice of a Danish 
 singer whom he had heard one chance evening at a Queen's Hall 
 Concert, and several second-hand bookshops that he knew, and 
 many, many other things, moments, emotions that thronged the 
 world. You could say that he was simply gathering his emotions 
 together and packing them away and calling them in the mass 
 this separate world. But it was not so. There were many emo- 
 tions, many people whom he loved, many desires, ambitions, 
 possessions that did not belong to this world. And Millie, for 
 instance, complete and vital though she was, with plenty of 
 imagination, did not know that this world existed. Could he 
 only find a clue to it how happy he would be! One moment 
 would be enough. If for one single instant the heavens would 
 open and he could see and could say then : "By this moment of 
 vision I will live for ever! I know now that this other world 
 exists and is external, and that one day I shall enter into it 
 completely." He fancied indeed he liked to fancy that his 
 adventure with Christina would, before it closed, offer him this 
 vision. Meanwhile his state was that of a man shut into a 
 room with the blinds down, the doors locked, but hearing be- 
 yond the wall sounds that came again and again to assure 
 him that he would not always be in that room and shadows 
 moved behind the blind. 
 
 Meanwhile on both worlds one must keep one's hand. One 
 must be practical and efficient and sensible oh yes (one's dreams 
 must not interfere. But one's dreams, nevertheless, were the 
 important thing). 
 
 "Would you mind," the voice broke through like a stone 
 smashing a pane of glass. "But your boot is " 
 
 He looked up to find a nervous gentleman with pince-nez and 
 a white slip to his waistcoat glaring at him. His boot was 
 resting on the opposite seat and a considerable portion of the 
 gentleman's trouser-leg.
 
 LIFE, DEATH AND FRIENDSHIP 207 
 
 He was terribly sorry, dreadfully embarrassed, blushing 1 , dis- 
 tressed. He buried himself in Couperas, and soon forgot his own 
 dreams in pursuing the adventures of the large and melan- 
 choly familiar to whose dismal fate Couperas was introducing 
 him. And behind, in the back of his head, something wad 
 saying to him for the two-millionth time, "I must not be such 
 an ass! I must not be such an ass!" 
 
 He arrived in London at mid-day, and the first thing that 
 he did was to telephone to Millie. She would be back in her 
 rooms by five that afternoon. His impulse to rush to Christina 
 he restrained, sitting in the Hill Street library trying to fasten 
 his mind to the monotonous voice of Mr. Spencer, who was so 
 well up in facts and so methodical in his brain that Henry 
 always wanted to stick pins into his trousers and make him 
 jump. 
 
 When he reached Millie's lodgings she had not yet returned, 
 but Mary Cass was there just going off! to eat some horrible 
 meal in an A.B.C. shop preparatory to a chemistry lecture. 
 
 "How's Millie?" he asked. 
 
 She looked him over as she always did before speaking to him. 
 
 "Oh ! She's all right \" she said. 
 
 "Keally all right?" he asked her. "I haven't thought her 
 letters sounded very happy .'* 
 
 "Well, I don't think she is very happy, if you ask me," 
 Mary answered, slowly pulling on her gloves. "I don't like 
 her young man. I can't think what she chose him for." 
 
 "What's he like?" asked Henry. 
 
 "Just a dressed-up puppy!" Mary tossed her head. "But, 
 maybe, I'm not fair to him. When two girls have lived to- 
 gether and like one another one of them isn't in all probability 
 going to be very devoted to the man who carries the other one 
 off." 
 
 "No, I suppose not." Henry nodded his head with deep 
 profundity. 
 
 "And then I despise men," Mary added, tossing her head. 
 'TTou're a poor lot all except your friend Westcott. I b'ke 
 Urn." 
 
 "I didn't know you knew him," said Henry. 
 
 "Oh yes, he's been here several times. Now if it were he
 
 208 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 who was going to carry Millie off! You know he's deeply in 
 love with her!" 
 
 "He! Peter?" Henry cried horrified. 
 
 ''Yes, of course. Do you mean to say you didn't see it?" 
 
 "But he can't he's married already !" 
 
 "Mr. Weetcott married?" Mary Cass repeated after him. 
 
 "Yes, didn't you know? . . . But Millie knows." 
 
 "Married? But when?" 
 
 "Oh, years ago, when he was very young. She ran away with 
 a friend of his and he's never heard of her since. She must 
 have been awful!" Henry drew a deep breath of disgust. 
 
 "Poor man!" Mary sighed. "Everything's crooked in this 
 beastly world. Nobody gets what he wants." 
 
 "Perhaps it's best he shouldn't." 
 
 Mary turned upon him. "Henry, there are times when I 
 positively loathe you. You're nearly the most detestable young 
 prig in London you would be if you weren't if you 
 weren't " 
 
 "If I weren't ?" said Henry, blushing. Of all things he 
 
 hated most to be called a prig. 
 
 "If you weren't such an incredible infant and didn't tumble 
 over your boots so often " 
 
 She was gone and he was alone to consider her news. Peter 
 in love with Millie ! How had he been so blind ? Of course he 
 could see it now, could remember a thousand things! Poor 
 Peter! Henry felt old and protective and all- wise, then re- 
 membering the other things that Mary Cass had said blushed 
 again. 
 
 "Am I really a prig?" he thought. "But I don't mean to be. 
 But perhaps prigs never do mean to be. What is a prig, any- 
 way? Isn't it some one who thinks himself better than other 
 people? Well, I certainly don't think myself better " 
 
 These beautiful thoughts were interrupted by Millie and, with 
 her, Mr. Baxter. 
 
 It may be said at once to save further time and trouble that 
 the two young men detested one another at sight. It waa 
 natural and inevitable that they should. Henry with his untidy 
 hair, his badly shaven chin, his clumsy clothes and his crookedly- 
 balancing pince-nez would of course seem to Bunny Baxter;
 
 LIFE, DEATH AOT> FEIENDSHIP 209 
 
 a terrible fellow to appear in public with. It would shock him 
 deeply, too, that so lovely a creature as Millie could possibly 
 have so plain a relation. It would also be at once apparent to 
 him that here was some one from whom he could hope for 
 nothing socially, whether borrowing of money, introductions 
 to fashionable clubs, or the name of a new tailor who allowed, 
 indeed invited, unlimited credit. It was quite clear that Henry 
 was a gate to none of these things. On Henry's side it was 
 natural that he should at once be prejudiced against any one 
 who was "dressed up/' He admitted to himself that Baxter 
 looked a gentleman, but his hair, his clothes, his shoes, had all 
 of them that easy perfection that would never, never, did he 
 live for a million years, be granted to Henry. 
 
 Henry disliked his fresh complexion, his moustache, the 
 contemptuous curl of his upper lip. He decided at once that 
 here was an enemy. 
 
 It would not in any case have been a very happy meeting, 
 but difficulties were made yet more difficult by the fact, suffi- 
 ciently obvious to the eyes of an already critical brother, that 
 the two of them had been "having words" as they came along. 
 Millie's cheeks were flushed and her eyes angry, and that she 
 looked adorable when she was thus did not help substantially 
 the meeting. 
 
 Millie went into the inner room and the two men sat stiffly 
 opposite one another and carried on a hostile conversation. 
 
 "Beastly weather," Mr. Baxter volunteered. 
 
 "Oh, do you think so?" Henry smiled, as though in wonder 
 at the extreme stupidity of his companion. "I should have said 
 it had been rather fine lately." 
 
 Silence. 
 
 "Up in London for long?" asked Baxter. 
 
 "Only two days, I think. Just came up to see that Millie 
 was all right." 
 
 "You won't have to bother any more now that she's got me 
 to look after her," said Baxter, sucking the gold knob of his 
 cane. 
 
 "As a matter of fact," said Henry, "she's pretty good at 
 looking after herself." 
 
 Silence.
 
 210 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 "You're secretary to some old Johnny, aren't you?" asked 
 Baxter. 
 
 "I'm helping a man edit some family papers," said Henry 
 with dignity. 
 
 "Same thing, isn't it?" said Baxter. "I should hate it." 
 
 "I expect you would," said Henry, with emphatic meaning be- 
 hind every word. 
 
 Silence. 
 
 "Know Cladgate?" asked Baxter. 
 
 "No," said Henry. 
 
 "Beastly place. Wouldn't have heen there if it weren't for 
 your sister. Good dancing, though. Do you dance?" 
 
 "No, I don't," said Henry. 
 
 "You're wise on the whole. Awful bore having to talk to 
 girls you don't know. One simply doesn't talk, if you know 
 what I mean." 
 
 "Oh, I know," said Henry. 
 
 Silence. 
 
 Millie came in. Henry got up. 
 
 "Think I'll be off now, Millie," he said. "Got a lot to do. 
 Will you creep away from your Cromwell Road to-morrow and 
 have lunch with me ?" 
 
 "All right," she said, with a readiness that showed that this 
 was in some way a challenge to Mr. Baxter. 
 
 'Til fetch you one-fifteen." 
 
 With a stiff nod to Baxter, he was gone. 
 
 "By Jove, how your brother does hate me," that young gentle- 
 man remarked. Then with a sudden change of mood that was 
 one of his most charming gifts, he threw himself at her feet. 
 
 "I'm a beast, Millie; I'm everything I shouldn't be, but I do 
 love you so ! I do ! I do ! ... The only decent thing in my 
 worthless life, perhaps, but it's true." 
 
 And, for a wonder, it was. 
 
 On that particular afternoon he was very nearly frank and 
 honest with her about many things. His love for her was 
 always to remain the best and truest thing that he had ever 
 known ; but when he looked down into that tangle of his history 
 and thence up into her clear, steadfast gaze his courage flagged 
 he could only reiterate again and again the one honest fact
 
 LIFE, DEATH AND FKIENDSHIP 211 
 
 that he knew that he did indeed love her with all the best 
 that was in him. She knew that it was the perception of that 
 that had first won her, and in all the doubts of him that were 
 now beginning to perplex her heart, that doubt never assailed 
 her. He did love her and was trying his best to be honest 
 with her. That it was a poor best she was soon to know. 
 
 But to-day, tired and filled to the brim with ten hours' queru- 
 lousness in the Cromwell Eoad household, she succumbed once 
 more to a longing for love and comfort and reassurance. Once 
 again she had told herself that this time she would force him 
 to clarity and truth once again she failed. He was sitting at 
 her feet: she was stroking his hair; soon they were locked in 
 one another's arms.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 HENRY IN LOVE 
 
 AT half-past one next day Millie and Henry were sitting 
 opposite one another at a little table in a Knightsbridge 
 restaurant. This might easily have been an occasion for one of 
 their old familiar squabbles there was material sufficient 
 but it was a mark of the true depths of their affection that the 
 one immediately recognised when the other was in real and 
 earnest trouble so soon as that was recognised any question of 
 quarrelling and they enjoyed immensely that healthy exercise 
 was put away. Henry made that recognition now, and com- 
 plicated though his own affairs were and very far from imme- 
 diate happiness, he had no thought but for Millie. 
 
 She, as was her way, at once challenged him: 
 
 "Of course you didn't like him," she said. 
 
 "No, I didn't," he answered. "But you didn't expect me to, 
 did you?" 
 
 "I wanted you to. ... No, I don't know. You will like him 
 when you know him better. You're always funny when any 
 one from outside dares to try and break into the family. Re- 
 member how you behaved over Philip." 
 
 "Ah, Philip! I was younger then. Besides there isn't any 
 family to break into now. . . ." He leant forward and touched 
 her hand. "There isn't anything I want except for you to be 
 happy, really there isn't. Of course for myself I'd rather you 
 stayed as you are for a long time to come it's better company 
 for me, but thaf s against nature. I made up my mind to be 
 brave when the moment came, but I'd imagined some one " 
 
 "Yes, I know," broke in Millie, "that's what one's friends 
 always insist on, that they should do the choosing. But if s me 
 that's got to do the living." She laughed. "What a terrible 
 sentence, but you know what I mean. . . . How do you know 
 I'm not happy?" she suddenly ended. 
 
 212
 
 HENRY IN LOVE 213 
 
 "Oh, of course any one can see. Your letters haven't been 
 happy, your looks aren't happy, you weren't happy with him 
 yesterday " 
 
 "I was the last part," she said, thinking. "Of course we'd 
 quarrelled just before we came in. We're always quarrelling, 
 I'm sure I don't know why. I'm not a person to quarrel much, 
 now am I ?" 
 
 "We've quarrelled a good bit in our time," said Henry re- 
 flectively. 
 
 "Yes, but that was different. This is so serious. Every 
 time Bunny and I quarrel I feel as though everything were over 
 for ever and ever. Oh ! there's no doubt of it, being engaged's a 
 very difficult thing." 
 
 "Well, then, there it is," said Henry. "You love him and he 
 loves you. There's nothing more to be said. But there are 
 some questions I'd like to ask. What are his people? Whafs 
 his profession ? When are you going to be married ? What are 
 you going to live on when you are married?" 
 
 "Oh, that's all right," she answered hurriedly. "Fm to meet 
 his mother in a day or two, and very soon he's going into a 
 motor-works out at Hackney somewhere. There aren't many 
 relations, I'm glad to say, on either side." 
 
 "Thanks," said Henry. "But haven't you seen his mother 
 
 yet?" 
 
 "No, she's been in Scotland." 
 "Where does he come from ?" 
 
 "Oh. they've got a place down in Devonshire somewhere." 
 She looked at him. He looked at her. Her look was loving 
 and tender, and said : "I know everything's wrong in this. You 
 know that I know this, but it's my fight and I'm going to make 
 it come right." His look was as loving as hers, and said: 
 "I know that you know that I know that this is going all wrong 
 and I'm doing my best to keep my eye on it, but I'm not going 
 to force you to give him away. Only when the smash comes 
 111 be with you." 
 
 All that he actually said was: "Have another eclair?" 
 She answered, "No thanks. . . ." Looking at him across the 
 table, she ended, as though this were her final comment on a 
 long unspoken conversation between them.
 
 214 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 "Yes, Henry, I know but there are two ways of falling in 
 love, one worshipping so that you're on your knees, the other 
 protecting so that your arm goes round I Tcnow he's not per- 
 fect I know it better every day but he wants some one like 
 me. He says he does, and I know it's true. You'd have liked 
 me/' she said almost fiercely, turning upon him, "to have mar- 
 ried some one like Peter/' 
 
 "Yes, I would. I'd have loved you to marry Peter if he 
 hadn't been married already." 
 
 They went out into the street, which was shining with long 
 lines of colour after a sudden scatter of rain. 
 
 She kissed him, ran and caught an omnibus, waved to him 
 from the steps, and was gone. 
 
 He went off to Peter Street. 
 
 He was once more in the pink-lit, heavily-curtained room with 
 its smell of patchouli and stale bread-crumbs, and once again 
 he was at the opposite end of the table from Mrs. Tenssen trying 
 to engage her in pleasant conversation. 
 
 He realized at once to-day that their relationship had taken 
 a further step towards hostility. She was showing him a new 
 manifestation. When he came in she was seated dressed to go 
 out, hurriedly eating a strange-looking meal that was here paper- 
 bags and there sardines. She was eating this hurriedly and 
 with a certain greed, plumping her thumb on to crumbs that had 
 escaped to the table and then licking her fingers. Her appear- 
 ance also to-day was strange: she was dressed entirely in 
 heavy and rather shabby black, and her face was so thickly 
 powdered and her lips so violently rouged that she seemed to be 
 wearing a mask. Out of this mask her eyes flashed vindictively, 
 greedily and violently, as though she wished with all her heart 
 to curse God and the universe but had no time because she 
 was hungry and food would not wait. Another thing to-day 
 Henry noticed: on other occasions when he had come in she 
 tad taken the trouble to force an exaggerated gentility, a re- 
 finement and elegance that was none the less false for wearing 
 a show of geniality. To-day there was no effort at manners: 
 instead she gave one glance at Henry and then lifted up her 
 saucer and drank from it with long thirsty gurgles. He always
 
 HENRY IN LOVE 215 
 
 felt when he saw her the same uncanny fear of her, as though 
 she had some power over him by which with a few muttered 
 words and a baleful glance she could turn him into a rat or a 
 toad and then squash him under her large flat foot. She was 
 of the world of magic, of unreality if you like to believe only 
 in what you see with your eyes. She was real enough to eat 
 sardines, though, and crunch their little bones with her teeth 
 and then wipe her oily fingers on one of the paper-bags, after 
 which she drank the rest of her tea, and then, sitting back in 
 her chair, surveyed Henry, sucking at her teeth as she did so. 
 "Well, what have you come for to-day?" she asked him. 
 "Oh, just to pay you a visit." 
 
 "Me! I like that. As though I didn't know what you're 
 after. . . . She's in there. She'll be out in a minute. I'm off 
 on some business of my own for an hour or two so you can 
 conoodle as much as you damned well please." 
 Henry said nothing to that. 
 
 "Why didn't you make an offer for her?" Mrs. Tenssen sud- 
 denly asked. 
 
 "An offer?" Henry repeated. 
 
 "Yes. I'm sick of her. Been sick of her these many years. 
 All I want is to get a little bit as a sort of wedding present, 
 in return, you know, for all I've done for her, bringing her up 
 as I have and feeding her and clothing her. . . . You're in love 
 with her. You've got rich people. Make an offer." 
 
 "You're a bad woman," Henry said, springing to his feet, 
 "to sell your own daughter as though she were. . . ." 
 
 "Selling, be blowed," replied Mrs. Tenssen calmly, pursuing 
 a recalcitrant crumb with her finger. "She's my daughter. I 
 had the pain of bearing her, the trouble of suckling her, the 
 expense of clothing her and keeping her respectable. She'd 
 have been on the streets long ago if it hadn't been for me. I 
 don't say I've always been all I should have been. I'm a 
 sinful woman, and I'm glad of it but you'll agree yourself 
 she's a pure girl if ever there was one. Dull I call it. However, 
 for those who like it there it is." 
 Henry said nothing. 
 Mrs. Tenssen looked at him scornfully. 
 "You're in love with her, aren't you?" she asked.
 
 216 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 "I'd rather not talk to you about what I feel/' Henry- 
 answered. 
 
 "Of course you're in love with her," Mrs. Tenssen continued. 
 "I don't suppose she cares a rap for you. She doesn't seem to 
 take after men at all, and you're not, if you'll forgive my saying 
 BO, altogether a beauty. You're young yet. But she'd do any- 
 thing to get away from me. Don't I know it and haven't I 
 had to make my plans carefully to prevent it? So long as her 
 blasted uncles keep out of this country for the next six months, 
 with me she's got to stay, and she knows it. But time's getting 
 short, and I've got to make my mind up. There are one or two 
 other offers I'm considering, but I don't in the least object to 
 hearing any suggestion you'd like to make." 
 
 "One suggestion I'd like to make/' said Henry hotly, "is 
 that I can get the police on your track for keeping a disorderly 
 house. They'll take her away soon enough when they know 
 what you've got in Victoria Street." 
 
 "Now then," said Mrs. Tenssen calmly, "that comes very 
 near to libel. You be careful of libel, young man. It's got many 
 a prettier fellow than you into trouble before now. Nobody's 
 ever been able to prove a thing against me yet and it's not likely 
 a chicken like you is going to begin now. Besides, supposing 
 you could, a pretty thing it would be for Christina to be 
 'dragged into such an affair in the Courts.' No thank you. 
 I can look after my girl better than that." 
 
 Mrs. Tenssen got up, went to a mirror to put her hat straight, 
 and then turned round upon him. She stood, her arms akimbo, 
 looking down upon him. 
 
 "I don't understand you virtuous people," she said, "upon 
 my word I don't. You make such a lot of fine talk about your 
 nobility and your high conduct and then you go and do things 
 that no old drab in the street would lower herself to. Here 
 are you, been sniffing round my daughter for months and haven't 
 got the pluck to lift a finger to take her out of what you think 
 her misery and make her happy. Oh, I loathe you good people, 
 damn the lot of you. You can go to hell for all I care, so you 
 bloody well can. . . . You'd better make the most of your 
 Christina while you've got the chance. You won't be coming
 
 HENRY IN LOVE 217 
 
 here many more times." With that she was gone, banging the 
 door behind her. 
 
 Christina came in, smiled at him without speaking, carried 
 the dirty remnants of her mother's meal into the inner room, 
 returned and sat down, a book in her hand, close to him. 
 
 He saw at once that she was happy to-night. The fright was 
 not in her eyes. When she spoke there was only a slight hint 
 of the Danish accent which, on days when she was disturbed, was 
 very strong. 
 
 She looked so lovely to him sitting there in perfect tranquillity, 
 the thin green book between her hands, that he got exultant 
 draughts of pleasure simply from gazing at her. They both 
 seemed to enjoy the silence; the room changed its atmosphere 
 as if in submission, perhaps, to their youth and simplicity. The 
 bells from the church near Shaftesbury Avenue were ringing, 
 and the gaudy clock on the mantelpiece, usually so inquisitive 
 in its malicious chatter, now tick-tocked along in amiable ap- 
 proval of them both. 
 
 "I'm very glad you've come at last," she said. "It's a 
 fortnight since the other time." 
 
 "Yes," he answered, flushing with pleasure that she should 
 remember. "I've been in the country working. What are you 
 reading?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh !" she cried, laughing. "Do hear me read and see 
 whether I pronounce the words right and tell me what some 
 of them mean. It's poetry. I was out with mother and I saw 
 this book open in the window with his picture, and I liked his 
 face so much that I went in and bought it. It's lovely, even 
 though I don't understand a lot of it. Now tell me the truth. 
 If I read it very badly, tell me: 
 
 "It was a nymph, uprisen to the breast 
 In the fountain's pebbly margin, and she stood 
 'Mong lilies, like the youngest of the brood. 
 To him her dripping hand she softly kist, 
 And anxiously began to plait and twist 
 Her ringlets round her fingers, saying : Youth ! 
 Too long, alas, hast thou starved on the ruth, 
 The bitterness of love: too long indeed, 
 Seeing thou art so gentle. Could I weed
 
 218 THE YOUtfG ENCHANTED 
 
 Thy soul of care, by heavens, I would offer 
 
 All the bright riches of my crystal coffer 
 
 To Amphitrite; all my clear-eyed fish, 
 
 Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, 
 
 Vermilion-tailed, or finned with silvery gauze; 
 
 Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws 
 
 A virgin light to the deep; my grotto-sands 
 
 Tawny and gold, oozed slowly from far lands 
 
 By my diligent springs ; my level lilies, shells, 
 
 My charming rod, my potent river spells; 
 
 Yes, everything, even to the pearly cup 
 
 Meander gave me, for I bubbled up 
 
 To fainting creatures in a desert wild. 
 
 But woe is me, I am but as a, child 
 
 To gladden thee; and all I dare to say, 
 
 Is, that I pity thee; that on this day 
 
 I've been thy guide; that thou must wander far 
 
 In other regions, past the scanty bar 
 
 To mortal steps, before thou canst be ta'en 
 
 From every wasting sigh, from every pain, 
 
 Into the gentle bosom of thy love. 
 
 Why it is thus, one knows in heaven above: 
 
 But, a poor Naiad, I guess not. Farevelll 
 
 I have a ditty for my hollow cell.'" 
 
 "ThaFs Endymwn," Henry said. "Keats." 
 
 "Keats!" she repeated, "what a funny name for a poet- 
 When I read it in the book I remembered very distantly whep 
 we were learning English, at school there was such a name. 
 What kind of man was he?" 
 
 "He had a very sad life," said Henry. "He had consumption 
 and the critics abused his poetry, and he loved a young lady 
 who treated him very badly. He was very young when he died 
 in Italy." 
 
 "What was the name of the girl he loved?" she asked. 
 
 "Brawne," said Henry. 
 
 "Ugh! what a horrible name! Keats and Brawne. Isn't 
 England a funny country? We have beautiful names at home 
 like Norregaard and Friessen and Christinsen and Engel an<?- 
 Bode. You can't say Bode." 
 
 Henry tried to say it. 
 
 "No. Not like that at all. It's right deep in your throat, 
 listen ! Eode Bode, Bode." She stared in front of her. "An<?
 
 HE1STRY IN LOVE 219 
 
 on a summer morning the water conies up Holman's Canal and 
 the green tiles shine in the water and the ships clink-clank 
 against the side of the pier. The ships are riding almost into 
 Kongens Nytorv and all along the Square in the early morning 
 sun they are going." She pulled herself up with a little jump. 
 
 "All the same, although he was called Keats there are lovely 
 words in what I was reading." She turned to the book again, 
 repeating to herself: 
 
 "All my clear-eyed fish, golden or rainbow-sided, 
 My grotto-sands tawny and gold." 
 
 " 'Tawny.' What's that?" 
 
 "Rich red-brown," said Henry. 
 
 "Do I say most of the words right?" 
 
 "Yes, nearly all." 
 
 She pushed the book away and looked at him. 
 
 "Now tell me," he said, "why you're happy to-day P ' 
 
 She looked around as though some one might be listening, 
 then leant towards him and lowered her voice. 
 
 "I've had a letter from my uncle, Uncle Axel. It's written 
 from Constantinople. Luckily I got the letters before mother 
 one morning and found this. He's coming to London as soon 
 as ever he can to see after me. Mother would be terribly angry 
 if she knew. She hates Uncle Axel worst of them all. When 
 he's there I'm safe !" 
 
 Henry's face fell. 
 
 "I feel such a fool," he said. "Even your mother said the 
 same thing. Here I've been hanging round for months and 
 done nothing for you at all. Any other man would have got 
 you away to Copenhagen or wherever you wanted to go. But 
 I I always fail. I'm always hopeless even now when I want 
 to succeed more than ever before in my life." 
 
 His voice shook. He turned away from her. 
 
 "No," she said. "You've not failed. I couldn't have escaped 
 like that. Mother would only have followed me. Both my uncles 
 are abroad. There's no one in Copenhagen to protect me. I 
 would rather what do you call it? hang on like this until 
 everything got so bad that I had to run. You've been a wonder-
 
 220 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 ful friend to me these months. You don't know what a help 
 you've been to me. I've been the ungrateful one." She looked 
 at him and drew his eyes to hers. "Do you know I've thought 
 a lot about you these last weeks, wondering what I could do in 
 return. It seems unfair. I'd like to love you in the way you 
 want me to. But I can't. . . . I've never loved anybody, not in 
 that way. I loved my father and I love my uncles, but most 
 of all I love places, the places I've always known, Odense and 
 the fields and the long line against the sky just before the sun- 
 sets, and Kjobenhavn when the bells are ringing and you go up 
 Ostngarde and it's so full of people you can't move: in the 
 spring when you walk out to Langlinir and smell the sea and 
 see the ships come in and hear them knocking with hammers 
 on the boats, and it's all so fresh and clean . . . and at twelve 
 o'clock when they change the guard and the soldiers come 
 marching down behind the band into Kongens Nytorv and all 
 the boys shout ... I don't know," she sighed, staring again 
 in front of her. "It's so simple there and every one's kind- 
 hearted. Here " She suddenly burst into tears, hiding 
 
 her face in her arms. 
 
 He came across to her, knelt down beside her, put his 
 hands against her neck. 
 
 "Don't cry. Oh, don't cry, Christina. You'll go home soon. 
 You will indeed. It won't be long to wait. No, don't bother. 
 It's only my pince-nez. I don't mind if they do break. Your 
 uncle will come and you'll go home. Don't cry. Please, please 
 don't cry." 
 
 He laid his cheek against her hot one, then his heart ham- 
 mering in his breast he kissed her. She did not move away from 
 him; her cheek was still pressed against his, but, as he kissed 
 her, he knew that it was true enough that whosoever one day 
 she loved it would not be him. 
 
 He stayed there his hand against her arm. She wiped her 
 eyes. 
 
 "I'm frightened," she said. "If Uncle Axel doesn't come in 
 time .... mother . . . Mr. Leishman." 
 
 "I'm here," Henry cried valiantly, feeling for his pince-nez, 
 which to his delight were not broken "I'll follow you any-
 
 HENRY IN LOVE 221 
 
 where. No harm shall happen to you so long as I'm alive." 
 She might have laughed at such a knight with his hair now 
 dishevelled, his eye-glasses crooked, his trouser-knees dusty. 
 She did not. She certainly came nearer at that moment to loving 
 him than she had ever done before.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 DEATH OP MBS. TRENCHAKD 
 
 I HAVE said before that one of the chief complaints that 
 Henry had against life was the abrupt fashion in which it 
 jerked him from one set of experiences and emotions into another. 
 When Christina laid her head on her arms and cried and he 
 kissed her Time stood still and History was no more. 
 
 He had been here for one purpose and one alone, namely 
 to guard, protect and cherish Christina so long as she might 
 need him. 
 
 Half an hour later he was in his room in Panton Street. 
 
 A telephone message said that his mother was very ill and 
 that he was to go at once to the Westminster house. 
 
 He knew what that meant. The moment had, at last, come. 
 His mother was dying, was perhaps even then dead. As he 
 stood by his shabby little table staring at the piece of paper 
 that offered the message, flocks of memories discordant, 
 humorous, vulgar, pathetic came to him, crowding about him, 
 insisting on his notice, hiding from him the immediate need 
 of his action. No world seemed to exist for him as he stood 
 there staring but that thick scented one of Garth and Eafiel and 
 the Westminster house and the Aunts and through it all, 
 forcing it together, the strong figure of his mother fashioning it 
 all into a shape upon which she had already determined, crush- 
 ing it until suddenly it broke in her hands. 
 
 Then he remembered where he should be. He put on his 
 overcoat again and hurried down the dark stairs into the 
 street. The first of the autumn fogs was making a shy, half -con- 
 fident appearance, peeping into Panton Street, rolling a little 
 towards the Comedy Theatre, then frightened at the lights 
 tumbling back and running down the hill towards Westminster. 
 In Whitehall it plucked up courage to stay a little while, and 
 
 222
 
 DEATH OF MKS. TRESTCHARD 223 
 
 bunched itself around the book-shop on one side and the Horse 
 Guards on the other and became quite black in the face peep- 
 ing into Scotland Yard. Near the Houses of Parliament it was 
 shy again, and crept away after writhing itself for five minutes 
 around St. Margaret's, up into Victoria Street, where it sud- 
 denly kicked its heels in the air, snapped its fingers at the 
 Army and Navy Stores, and made itself as thick and confusing 
 as possible round Victoria Station, so that passengers went to 
 wrong destinations and trains snorted their irritation and 
 annoyance. 
 
 To Henry the fog had a curious significance, sweeping him 
 back to that evening of Grandfather's birthday, when, because 
 of the fog, a stranger had lost himself and burst in upon their 
 family sanctity for succour the most important moment of 
 young Henry's life perhaps! and here was the moment that 
 was to close that earlier epoch, close it and lock it up and 
 put it away and the Fog had come once again to assist at the 
 Ceremony. 
 
 In Bundle Square the Fog was a shadow, a thin ghostly cur- 
 tain twisting and turning as though it had a life and purpose 
 all of its own. It hid and revealed, revealed and hid a cherry- 
 coloured moon that was just then bumping about on a number 
 of fantastically leering chimney-pots. The old house was the 
 same, with its square set face, its air of ironic respectability, 
 sniggering at its true British hypocrisy, alive though the Family 
 Spirit that it had once enshrined was all but dead, was to- 
 night to squeak its final protest. The things in the house were 
 the same, just the same and in the same places only there was 
 electric light now where there had been gas and there was a 
 new servant-maid to take off his coat, a white-faced little creature 
 with a sniffling cold. 
 
 She knew him apparently. "Please, Mr. Henry, they're all 
 upstairs," she said. But he went straight into his father's 
 study. There was no human being there, but how crammed 
 with life it was, and a life so far from Christina and her affairs 1 
 It was surely only yesterday that he had stood there and hia 
 father had told him of the engagement between Katherine 
 and Philip, and afterwards he had gone out into the passage 
 and seen them kissing. . . . That too was an event in his life,
 
 224 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 The books looked at him and remained aloof knowing so much 
 that he did not know, tired and sated with their knowledge 
 of life. 
 
 He went upstairs. On the first landing he met Millie. They 
 talked in whispers. 
 
 "Shall I go up?" 
 
 "Yes, you'd better for a moment." 
 
 "How is she?" 
 
 "Oh, she doesn't know any of us. She can't live through the 
 night." 
 
 "Who's there?" 
 
 "Father and Katherine and the Aunts." 
 
 "And she didn't know you?" 
 
 "None of us. ... " 
 
 He went suddenly stepping on tiptoe as though he were afraid 
 of waking somebody. 
 
 The long dim bedroom was green-shaded and very soft to 
 the tread. Beside the bed Katherine was sitting; nearer the 
 window in an armchair Henry's father; on the far side of the 
 bed, against the wall like images, staring in front of them, 
 the Aunts ; the doctor was talking in a low whisper to the nurse, 
 who was occupied with something at the wash-hand stand all 
 these figures were flat, of one dimension against the green light. 
 When Henry entered there was a little stir; he could not see 
 his mother because Katherine was in the way, but he felt that 
 the bed was terrible, something that he would rather not see, 
 something that he ought not to see. 
 
 The thought in his brain was : "Why are there so many peo- 
 ple here? They don't want all of us. ... " 
 
 Apparently the doctor felt the same thing because he moved 
 about whispering. He came at last to Henry. He was a little 
 man, short and fat. He stood on his toes and whispered in 
 Henry's ear, "Better go downstairs for , bit. No use being here. 
 I'll call you if necessary." 
 
 The Aunts detached themselves from the wall and came to 
 the door. Then Henry noticed that something was going on 
 between his sister Katherine and the little doctor. She was 
 shaking her head violently. He was trying to persuade her. 
 No, she would not be persuaded. Henry suddenly seemed to see
 
 DEATH OF MRS. TRENCHARD 225 
 
 the old Katherine whom through many years now he had lost 
 the old Katherine with her determination, her courage, her 
 knowledge of what she meant to do. She stayed, of course. 
 The others filed out of the door Aunt Aggie, Aunt Betty, his 
 father, himself. 
 
 They were down in the dining-room, sitting round the dining- 
 room table. Millie had joined them. 
 
 Aunt Aggie looked just the same, Henry thought as thin 
 and as bitter and as pleased with herself still the little mole 
 on her cheek, the tight lips, the suspicious eyes. 
 
 They talked in low voices. 
 
 "Well, Henry." 
 
 "Well, Aunt Aggie." 
 
 "And what are you doing for yourself?" 
 
 "Secretarial work." 
 
 "Dear, dear, I wouldn't have thought you had the applica- 
 tion." 
 
 His father was fatter, yes, a lot fatter. He had been a jolly- 
 looking man once. Eunning to seed. . . . He'd die too, one 
 day. They'd all die ... all ... himself. Die? What was 
 it? Where was it? 
 
 "Oh yes, we like Long-Masterman very much, thank you, 
 Millie dear. It suits Aggie's health excellently. You really 
 should come down one day only I suppose you're so busy." 
 
 "Yes indeed." Aunt Aggie's old familiar snort. "Millie 
 always was too busy for her poor old Aunts." 
 
 How disagreeable Aunt Aggie was and how little people 
 changed although you might pretend. . . . But he felt that he 
 was changing all the time. Suppose he wasn't changing at all ? 
 Oh, but that was absurd! How different the man who sat out 
 in the garden at Buncombe from the boy who, at that very table, 
 had sat after dinner on Grandfather's table looking for sugared 
 cherries? Eeally different? . . . But, of course. . . . Yes, but 
 really ? 
 
 Aunt Aggie stood up. "I really don't know what we're all 
 sitting round this table for. They'll send for us if anything 
 happens. I'm sure poor Harriet wouldn't want us to be -uncom- 
 fortable." 
 
 Henry and Millie were left there alone.
 
 226 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 "How quiet the house is !" Millie gave a little shiver. "Poor 
 mother ! I wish I felt it more. I suppose I shall afterwards." 
 
 "It's what people always call a 'happy release/ " said Henry. 
 "It really has been awful for her these last years. When I went 
 up to see her a few weeks ago her eyes were terrible." 
 
 "Poor mother/' Millie repeated again. They were silent for 
 a little, then Millie said: "You know, I've been thinking all 
 the evening what Peter once said to us about our being en- 
 chanted because we are young. There's something awfully true 
 about it. When things are at their very worst when I'm 
 having the most awful row with Bunny or Victoria's more tire- 
 some th&i you can imagine although I say to myself, 'I'm per- 
 fectly miserable/ I'm not really because there's something behind 
 it all that I'm enjoying hugely. I wouldn't miss a moment of it. 
 I want every scrap. It is like an enchantment really. I sup- 
 pose I'll wake up soon." 
 
 Henry nodded. 
 
 "I feel it too. And I feel as though it must all have its 
 climax in some wonderful adventure that's coming to me. An 
 adventure that I shall remember all the rest of my life. It 
 seems silly, after the War, talking of adventures, but the War 
 was too awful for one to dare to talk about oneself in connection 
 with it, although it was immensely personal all the time. But 
 we're out of the War now and back in life again, and if I can 
 keep that sense of magic I have now, nothing can hurt me. 
 The whole of life will be an adventure." 
 
 "We must keep it," said Millie. "We must remember we 
 had it. And when we get ever so old and dusty and rheumatic 
 we can say : 'Anyway we knew what life was once/ " 
 
 "Yes, I know," said Henry. "And be one of those people 
 who say to their children and other people's children if they 
 haven't any of their own: 'Ah, my dear, there's nothing like 
 being young. My school-days were the happiest/ Hot! as 
 though most people's school-time wasn't damnable." 
 
 "Oh it's nothing to do with age," said Millie scornfully. "The 
 enchanted people are any age, but they're always young. The 
 only point about them is that they're the only people who really 
 know what life is. All the others are wrong." 
 
 "We're talking terribly like the virtuous people in books,"
 
 DEATH OF MRS. TRENCHARD 227 
 
 said Henry. "You know, books like Seymour's, all about 
 Courage and Tolerance and all the other things with capital 
 letters. Why is it that when a Russian or Scandinavian talks 
 about life it sounds perfectly natural and that when an English- 
 man does it's false and priggish ?" 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know/' said Millie in an absent-minded 
 voice. "Isn't the house quiet? And isn't it cold? . . . Poor 
 mother ! It's so horrid being not able to do anything. Kather- 
 ine's feeling it terribly. She's longing for her to say just one 
 word." 
 
 "She won't," said Henry. "She'll hold out to the vlry last/' 
 
 At that moment Aunt Betty appeared in the door^y, beck- 
 oning to them. t 
 
 A moment later they were all there gathered round* the bed. 
 
 Now Henry could see his mother. She was lying, her eyes 
 closed, but with that same determined expression in the face 
 that he had so often seen before. She might be dead or she 
 might be asleep. He didn't feel any drama in connection with 
 his vision of her. Too many years had now intervened since 
 his time with her. He did indeed recall with love and affection 
 some woman who had been very good to him, who had taken 
 him to Our Boys' Clothing Company to be fitted on, who had 
 written to him and sent him cake when he was at school, and 
 of whom he had thought with passionate and tearful appeal when 
 he had been savagely bullied. But that woman had died long 
 ago. This stern, remorseless figure, who had cursed her children 
 because they would not conform to the patterns that she had 
 made for them, had confronted all his love of justice, of toler- 
 ance, of freedom. There had been many moments when he had 
 hated her, and now when he was seeing her for the last time 
 he could not summon false emotion and cry out at a pain that 
 he did not feel. And yet he knew well that when she was gone 
 remorse would come sweeping in and that he would be often 
 longing for her to return that he might tell her that he loved 
 her and wished to atone to her for all that he had done that was 
 callous and selfish and unkind. 
 
 Worst of all was the unreality of the scene, the dim light, the 
 faint scent of medicine, the closed-in seclusion as though they 
 were all barred from the outside world which they were never
 
 228 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 to enter again. He looked at the faces at Aunt Betty upset, 
 distressed, moved deeply because in her tender heart she could 
 not bear to see any one or any thing unhappy ; Aunt Aggie, se- 
 vere, fancying herself benign and dignified, thinking only of 
 herself; the doctor and the nurse professionally preoccupied, 
 wondering perhaps how long this tiresome old woman would 
 be "pegging out"; his father struggling to recover something 
 of the old romance that had once bound him, tired out with the 
 effort, longing for it all to be over; Millie, perfectly natural, 
 ready to do anything that would help anybody, but admitting 
 no falseness nor hypocrisy; Katherine ! 
 
 It was Katherine who restored Henry to reality. Katherine 
 was suffering terribly. She was gazing at her mother, an ago- 
 nized appeal in her eyes. 
 
 "Come back! Come back! Come and say that you forgive 
 me for all I have done, that you love me still " 
 
 She seemed to have shed all her married life, her home with 
 Philip, her bearing of children to him, her love for him, her 
 love for them all. She was the daughter again, in an agony 
 of repentance and self-abasement. Was the victory after all to 
 Mrs. Trenchard? 
 
 Katherine broke into a great cry: 
 
 "Mother ! Mother ; speak to me ! Forgive me \" 
 
 She fell on her knees. 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard's eyes opened. There was a slight move- 
 ment of the mouth: it seemed, in that half light, ironical, a 
 gesture of contempt. Her head rolled to one side and the long, 
 long conflict was at an end.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 NOTHING IS PERFECT 
 
 AT that moment of Mrs. Trenchard's death began the worst 
 battle of Millie's life (so far). She dated it from that 
 or perhaps from the evening of her mother's funeral four days 
 later. 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard had expressed a wish to be buried in Garth 
 and so down to Glebeshire they all went. The funeral took place 
 on a day of the dreariest drizzling rain Glebeshire at its earliest 
 autumn worst. Afterwards they Katherine, Millie, Henry f 
 Philip and Mr. Trenchard sat over a spluttering fire in the 
 old chilly house and heard the rain, which developed at night 
 into a heavy down-pour, beat upon the window-panes. 
 
 The Aunts had not come down, for which every one was 
 thankful. Philip, looking as he did every day more and more 
 a cross between a successful Prize-fighter and an eminent Cabinet 
 Minister, was not thinking, as in Henry's opinion he should 
 have been, of the havoc that he had wrought upon the Trenchard 
 family, but of Public Affairs. Katherine was silent and soon 
 went up to her room. Henry thought of Christina, his father 
 retired into a corner, drank whisky and went to sleep. Millie 
 struggled with a huge pillow of depression that came lolloping 
 towards her and was only kept away by the grimmest deter- 
 mination. 
 
 Nobody except Katherine thought directly of Mrs. Trenchard, 
 but she was there with them all in the room and would be with 
 one or two of them Mr. Trenchard, senior, and Katherine for 
 instance until the very day of their death. 
 
 Yes, perhaps after all Mrs. Trenchard had won the battle. 
 
 Millie went back to London with a cold and the Cromwell 
 Road seemed almost unbearable. A great deal of what was 
 unbearable came of course from Victoria. Had she not witnessed 
 
 229
 
 230 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 it with her own eyes Millie could not have believed that a month 
 at Cladgate could alter so completely a human being as it had 
 altered Victoria. There she had tasted Blood and she intended 
 to go on tasting Blood to the end of the Chapter. It is true 
 that Cladgate could not take all the blame for the transformation 
 Mr. Bennett and Major Mereward must also bear some 
 responsibility. When these gentlemen had first come forward 
 Millie had been touched by the effect upon Victoria of ardent 
 male attention. Now she found that same male attention day 
 by day more irritating. Major Mereward she could endure, 
 silent and clumsy though he was. It was certainly tiresome 
 to find yourself sitting next to him day after day at luncheon 
 when the most that he could ever contribute was "Kippin' 
 weather, what?" or "Dirty sort of day to-day" but he did adore 
 Victoria and would have adored her just as much had she not 
 possessed a penny in the world. He thought her simply the 
 wittiest creature in Europe and laughed at everything she said 
 and often long before she said it. Yes, he was a good man even 
 though he was a dull one. 
 
 But if Major Mereward was good Eobin Bennett was most 
 certainly bad. Millie very soon hated him with a hatred that 
 made her shiver. She hated him, of course, for himself, but 
 was it only that ? Deep down in her soul there lurked a dreadful 
 suspicion. Could it be that some of her hatred arose because 
 in him she detected some vices and low qualities grown to full 
 bloom that in twig, stem and leaf were already sprouting in a 
 younger soil ? Was there in Eobin Bennett a prophecy ? No, no. 
 Never, never, never. . . . And yet. . . . Oh, how she hated him ! 
 His smart clothes, his neat hair, his white hands, his soft voice ! 
 And Bunny liked him. "Not half a bad fellow that man Ben- 
 nett. Knows a motor-car when he sees one." 
 
 Millie had it not in her nature to pretend, and she did not 
 disguise for a moment on whose side she was. 
 
 "You don't like me?" Bennett said to her one day. 
 
 "No, indeed I don't," said Millie, looking him in the eyes. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Why? Because for one thing Fm very fond of Victoria. 
 You're after her money. She'll be perfectly miserable if she 
 marries you."
 
 NOTHING IS PEKFECT 231 
 
 He laughed. Nothing in life could disconcert him! 
 
 "Yes, of course I'm a Pirate." (Hadn't some one else some- 
 where said that once?) "This is the day for Pirates. There 
 never was such a time for them. All sorts of people going about 
 with money that they don't know what to do with. All sorts 
 of other people without any money ready to do anything to 
 get it. No morality any more. Damned good thing for Eng- 
 land. Hypocrisy was the only thing that was the matter with 
 her now she's a hypocrite no longer ! You see I'm frank with 
 you, Miss Trenchard. You say you don't like me. "Well, I'll 
 return the compliment. I don't like you either. Of course 
 you're damned pretty, about the prettiest girl in London I should 
 say. But you're damned conceited too. You'll forgive me, 
 won't you ? You don't spare me you know. I tell young Baxter 
 he's a fool to marry you. He'll be miserable with you." 
 
 "You tell him that?" Millie said furiously. 
 
 "Yes, why not? You tell Victoria she'd be miserable with 
 me, don't you ? Well, then. . . . You're very young, you know. 
 When you're a bit older you'll see that there's not so much dif- 
 ference between people like me and people like yourself as you 
 think. We all line up very much the same in the end. I mayn't 
 have quite your faults and you mayn't have quite mine, but 
 when it comes to the Judgment Day I don't expect there'll be 
 much to choose between Piracy and Arrogance." 
 
 So far Mr. Bennett and a Victory cannot exactly be claimed 
 for Millie in this encounter. She was furious. She was miser- 
 able. Was she so conceited? She'd ask Henry. She did ask 
 the little doctor, who told her "No. Only a little self-confi- 
 dent." He was her only friend and support in these days. 
 
 "Be patient with Victoria," he said. "It's only a phase. 
 She'll work through this." 
 
 "She won't if she marries Mr. Bennett," Millie said. 
 
 Meanwhile the old artists' colony was broomed right away. 
 Eve was carried down to the cellar, the voice of Mr. Block was 
 no longer heard in the land and the poor little Kussian went and 
 begged for meals in other districts. Victoria danced, went 
 to the theatre and gave supper-parties. 
 
 She was quite frank with Millie. 
 
 "I don't mind telling you, Millie, that all that art wasn't
 
 232 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 quite genuine not altogether. I do like pretty things, of course 
 you know me well enough to know that. And I do want to' 
 help poor young artists. But they're so ungrateful. Now aren't 
 they, Millie? You can see it for yourself. Look at Mr. Block. 
 I really did everything I could for him. But is he pleased? 
 Not a bit. He's as discontented as he can be." 
 
 "It's very difficult doing kindnesses to people," said Millie 
 sententiously. "Sometimes you want to stop before they think 
 you ought to." 
 
 "Now you're looking at me reproachfully. That isn't fine. 
 Why shouldn't I enjoy myself and be gay a little ? And I love 
 dancing; I daresay I look absurd, but so do thousands of other 
 people, so what does it matter? My Millie, I must be happy. 
 I must. Do you know that this is positively the first time I've 
 been happy in all my life and I daresay it's my last. ... I know 
 you often think me a fool. Oh, I see you looking at me. But 
 I'm not such a fool as you think. I know about my age and 
 my figure and all the rest of it. I know that if I hadn't a 
 penny no one would look at me. You think that I don't know 
 any of these things, but indeed I do. ... It's my last fling and 
 you can't deprive me of it !" 
 
 "Oh I don't want to deprive you of it," cried Millie, suddenly 
 flinging her arms round the fat, red-faced woman, "only I don't 
 want you to go and do anything foolish like marrying Mr. 
 Bennett for instance." 
 
 "Now, why shouldn't I marry Mr. Bennett? Suppose I'm in 
 love with him madly. Isn't it something in these days when 
 there are so many old maids to have a month of love even if he 
 beats one all the rest of one's days? And anyway I've got the 
 purse I could keep him in check. . . . No, that's a nasty way 
 of talking. And I'm certainly not in love with Bennett, nor 
 with Mereward neither. I don't suppose I'll ever be in love 
 with any one again." 
 
 "You're lucky !" Millie broke out. "Oh, you are indeed ! It 
 isn't happy to be in love. It's miserable." 
 
 Indeed she was unhappy. She could not have believed that 
 she would ever allow herself to be swung into such a swirl of 
 emotions as were hers now. At one moment she hated him, 
 feeling herself bound ignobly, surrendering weakly all that was
 
 NOTHING IS PERFECT 233 
 
 best in herself ; at such a moment she determined that she would 
 be entirety frank with him, insisting on his own frankness, 
 challenging him to tell her everything that he was, as she now 
 knew, keeping back from her . . . then she loved him so that 
 she wanted only his company, only to be with him, to hear him 
 laugh, to see him happy, and she would accept any tie (knowing 
 in her heart that it was a lie) if it would keep him with her and 
 cause him to love her. That he did love her through all his 
 weakness she was truly aware: it was that awareness that 
 chained her to him. 
 
 Very strange the part that Ellen played in all this. That odd 
 woman made no further demonstrations of affection; she was 
 always now ironically sarcastic, hurting Millie when she could, 
 and she knew, as no one else in the place did, the way to hurt 
 her. Because of her Bunny came now much less to the house. 
 
 "I can't stand that sneering woman/' he said, "and she loathes 
 me." 
 
 Millie tried to challenge her. 
 
 "Why do you hate Bunny?" she asked. "He's never done 
 you any harm." 
 
 "Hasn't he?" Ellen answered smiling. 
 
 "No, what harm has he done you?" 
 
 "I'll tell you one day." 
 
 "I hate these mysteries," Millie cried. "Once you asked to 
 be my friend. Now " 
 
 "Now?" repeated Ellen. 
 
 "You seem to want to hurt me any way you can." 
 
 Ellen had a habit of standing stiff against the wall, her heels 
 together, her head back as though she were being measured for 
 her height. 
 
 "Perhaps I don't like to see you so happy when I'm unhappy 
 myself." 
 
 Millie came to her. 
 
 "Why are you unhappy, Ellen? I hate you to be. I do like 
 you. I do want to be your friend if you'll let me. I offended 
 you somehow in the early days. You've never forgiven me for 
 it. But I don't even now know T7hat I did." 
 
 Ellen walked away. Suddenly she turned. 
 
 "What," she said, "can people like you know about people
 
 234 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 like us, how we suffer, how we hate ourselves, how we are thirstier 
 and thirstier and for ever unsatisfied. . . . No, I don't mean 
 you any harm. I'll save you from Baxter, though. You're 
 too pretty. . . . You can escape even though I can't." 
 
 There was melodrama in this it seemed to Millie. It was 
 quite a relief to have a fierce quarrel with Bunny five minutes 
 later. The quarrel came, of course, from nothing about some 
 play which was, Bunny said, at Daly's, and Millie at the Lyric. 
 
 They were walking furiously down Knightsbridge. An omni- 
 bus passed. The play was at the Lyric. 
 
 "Of course I was right," said Millie. 
 
 "Oh, you're always right, aren't you?" 
 
 Millie turned. 
 
 "I'm not coming on with you if you're like that." 
 
 <r Very well then." He suddenly stepped back to her with his 
 charming air of penitence. 
 
 "Millie, I'm sorry. Don't let's fight to-day." 
 
 "Well, then, take me to see your mother." 
 
 The words seemed not to be hers. At their sudden utterance 
 Knightsbridge, the trees of the Park were carved in coloured 
 stone. 
 
 His mouth set. "No, I can't." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "She's not she's not in London." 
 
 She knew that he was lying. 
 
 "Then take me to where she is." 
 
 They were walking on again, neither seeing the other. 
 
 "You know that I can't. She's down in the country." 
 
 "Then we'll go there." 
 
 "We can't." 
 
 "Yes, we can. Now. At once. If you ever want to speak 
 to me again. ..." 
 
 "I tell you I've told you a thousand times we must wait. 
 There are reasons " 
 
 "What reasons?" 
 
 "If you're patient- 
 
 Tm tired of being patient. Take me now or I'll never 
 speak to you again." 
 "Well then, don't."
 
 NOTHING IS PEBFECT 235 
 
 They parted. After an evening of titter misery she wrote to 
 him: 
 
 MY DARLING BUNNY I know that I was hateful this afternoon. 
 I know that I've been hateful other afternoons and shall be hateful 
 again on afternoons to come. You're not very nice either on 
 these occasions. What are we to do about it? We do love one 
 another I know we do. We ought to be kinder to one another 
 than we are to any one else and yet we seem to like to lash out 
 and hurt one another. And I think this is because there's some- 
 thing really wrong in our relationship. You make me feel as 
 though you were ashamed to love me. Now why should you be 
 ashamed? Why can't we be open and clear before all the world? 
 
 If you have some secret that you are keeping from me, tell me 
 and we'll discuss it frankly like friends. Take me to see your 
 mother. If she doesn't like me at first perhaps she will when she 
 knows me better. Anyway we shall be sure of where we are. 
 Oh, Bunny, we could be so happy. Why don't you let us be? 
 I know that it is partly my fault. I suppose I'm conceited and 
 think I'm always right. But I don't really inside only if you 
 don't pretend to have an opinion of your own no one will ever 
 listen to anything you say. Oh! I don't know what I'm writing. 
 I am tempted to telephone to you and see if you are in and if you 
 are to ask you to come over here. Perhaps you will come of your 
 own accord. Every footstep outside the door seems to be yours 
 and then it goes on up the stairs. Don't let us quarrel, Bunny. 
 I hate it so and we say such horrid things to one another that 
 we neither of us mean. Forgive me for anything I've done or said. 
 I love you. I love you. . . . Bunny darling. Your loving 
 
 M. 
 
 Her letter was crossed by one from him. 
 
 DEAREST MILLTE I didn't mean what I said this afternoon. I 
 love you so much that when we quarrel it's terrible. Do be pa- 
 tient, darling. You want everything to be right all in a moment. 
 I'll tell you one day how difficult it has been all these months. 
 You'll see then that it isn't all my fault. I'm not perfect but I 
 do love you. You're the most beautiful thing ever made and I'm 
 a lucky devil to be allowed to kiss your hand. I'll be round at 
 Cromwell Road five o'clock to-morrow afternoon. Please forgive 
 me, Millie darling. Your loving 
 
 BUNNY. 
 
 "To-morrow afternoon at five o'clock" the reconciliation was 
 complete. No secrets were revealed.
 
 CHAPTER YI 
 
 THE EETUKN" 
 
 PETER WESTCOTT, meanwhile, had been passing his 
 London summer in a strange state of half-expectant happi- 
 ness and tranquillity. It was a condition quite new to him, this 
 almost tranced state of pause as though he were hesitating out- 
 side the door of some room; was some one coming who would 
 enter with him ? Was he expecting to see some treasure within 
 that might after all not be there? Was he afraid to face that 
 realization? 
 
 Throughout the whole of that solitary August he had with 
 him three joys London, the book that was now slowly day by 
 day growing, and Millie. When he was young he had taken all 
 he could get then everything had been snatched from him 
 now in his middle age life had taught him to savour everything 
 slowly, to expect nothing more than he perceived actually before 
 him; he had grown selfish in his consciousness of his few treas- 
 ures. If he shared with others perhaps the gods would grow 
 jealous and rob him once again. 
 
 People might deride or condemn. He was shy now; his heart 
 went out as truly, as passionately as it had ever done, but he 
 alone now must know that. Henry and Millie, yes they might 
 know something had he not sworn comradeship with them? 
 But not even to them could be truly speak of his secrets. He 
 had talked to Henry of his book and even discussed it with him, 
 but he would not put into spoken words the desires and ambi- 
 tions that, around it, were creeping into his heart. He scarcely 
 dared own them to himself. 
 
 Of his feeling about London he did not speak to any one be- 
 cause he could not put it into words. There was something 
 mysterious in the very soul of the feeling. He could tell himself 
 that it was partly because London was a middle-aged man's 
 
 236
 
 THE RETURN 237 
 
 town. Paris was for youth, he said, and New York too and 
 Berlin perhaps, but London did not love you until you were a 
 little tired and had known trouble and sorrow and lost your 
 self-esteem. Then the grey-smoked stone, the grey of pigeon's 
 wings and the red-misted sky and the faint dusty green of the 
 trees settled about your heart and calmed you. Now when the 
 past is something to you at last, and the scorn of the past that 
 you had in your youth is over, London admits you into her 
 comradeship. "There is no place/' he said to himself, "where 
 one can live in such tranquillity. She is like a woman who was 
 once your mistress, whom you meet again after many years and 
 with whom at last, now that passion is gone, you can have kind, 
 loving friendship. Against the grey-white stone and the dim 
 smoke-stained sky the night colours come and go, life flashes 
 and fades, sounds rise and fall, and kindliness of heart is there 
 at the end." He found now that he could watch everything with 
 a passionate interest. Marylebone High Street might not be 
 the most beautiful street in London, but it had the charm of a 
 small country town where, closing your eyes you could believe 
 that only a mile away there was the country road, the fir-wood, 
 the high, wind-swept down. As people down the street stopped 
 for their morning gossip and the dogs recognized their accus- 
 tomed friends and the little bell of the tiny Post Office jangled 
 its bell, London rolled back like a thick mist on to a distant 
 horizon and its noise receded into a thin and distant whisper 
 of the wind among the trees. Watching from his window he 
 came to know faces and bodies and horses, he grew part of a 
 community small enough to want his company, but not narrow 
 enough to limit his horizon. 
 
 His days during those months were very quiet and very happy. 
 He worked in the morning at his book, at some reviewing, at an 
 occasional article. His few friends, Campbell, Martha Proctor. 
 Monteith perhaps, James Maradick, one or two more, came to 
 see him or he went to them. There was the theatre (so much 
 better than the highbrows asserted), there were concerts. There 
 was golf at a cheap little course at Eoehampton, and there were 
 occasional week-ends in the country ... as a period of pause 
 before some great event those were happy months. Perhaps 
 the great event would never come, but never in his life before had
 
 238 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 he felt so deeply assured that he was moving towards something 
 that was to change all his life. Even the finishing of his book 
 would do that. It was called The Fiery Tree, and it began with 
 a man who, walking at night towards a town, loses his way and 
 takes shelter in an old farmhouse. In the farmhouse are two 
 men and an old woman. They consent to put him up for the 
 night. He goes to his room, and looking out from his window 
 on to the moonlit garden he sees, hiding in an appletree. . . . 
 What does he see ? It does not matter. In the spring of 1923 
 the book will be published The Fiery Tree, By Peter Westcott: 
 Author of Reuben Hallard, etc. : and you be able to judge 
 whether or no he has improved as a writer after all these years. 
 Whether he has improved or no the principal fact is that day 
 after day he got happiness and companionship and comfort from 
 his book. It might be good : it might be bad : he said he did not 
 know. Campbell was right. He did his best, secured his happi- 
 ness. What came when the book was between its cover was 
 another matter. 
 
 Behind London and the book was Millie. She coloured all 
 his day, all his thoughts: sometimes she came before him with 
 her eyes wide and excited like a child waking on her birthday 
 morning. Sometimes she stood in front of him, but away from 
 him, her eyes watching him with that half-ironical suggestion 
 that she knew all about life, that he and indeed all men were 
 children to her whom she could not but pity, that suggestion 
 that went so sweetly with the child in herself, the simplicity and 
 innocence and confidence. 
 
 And then again she would be before him simply in her beauty, 
 her colour, gold and red and dark, her body so straight, so 
 strong, so slim, the loveliness of her neck, her hands, her breast. 
 Then a mist came before his eyes and he could see no more. 
 
 Sometimes he ached to know how she was, whether she were 
 happy with this man to whom she was engaged; he had no 
 thought any more of having her for himself. That was one thing 
 that his middle-age and his past trouble had brought him 
 patience, infinite, infinite patience. 
 
 Then, as unheralded as such things usually are, the crisis 
 came. It was a foggy afternoon. He came in about half-past 
 three, meaning to work. Just as he was about to sit down at
 
 THE KETUKN" 239 
 
 his table his telephone bell rang. He was surprised to hear 
 Martha Proctor's voice: he was still more surprised when she 
 told him that she was at Selfridge's and would like to come in, 
 and have tea if he were alone. 
 
 Martha Proctor! The last of the Three Graces to pay him 
 any attention he said. But I like her. I've always liked her 
 best of the three. . . . 
 
 He got his tea things from the little brown cupboard, made 
 some toast, found a pot of raspberry jam; just as he had finished 
 Martha Proctor stalked in. He liked her clear-cut ways, the 
 decent friendly challenge of her smile, her liking for brown 
 bread and jam, with no nonsense about "not being really hun- 
 gry/' Yes, he liked her and he was pleased that she had 
 troubled to come to him, even though it was only the fog that 
 had driven her in. But at first his own shyness, the eternal sense 
 always with him that he was a recognized failure, and that no 
 one wanted to hear what he had to say, held him back. There 
 fell silences, silences that always came when he was alone with 
 anybody. 
 
 He had not the gift of making others enthusiastic, of firing 
 their intelligence. Only Millie and Henry, and perhaps James 
 Maradick and Bobby Galleon were able to see him as he really 
 was. With others he always thought of the thing that he was 
 going to say before he said it; then, finding it priggish, or sen- 
 tentious, or platitudinous, didn't say it after all. No wonder 
 men found him dull! 
 
 He liked Martha Proctor, but the first half-hour of their 
 meeting was not a success. Then, with a smile he broke out : 
 
 "You know you wouldn't think it but I'm tremendously 
 glad the fog drove you in here to-day. There are so many 
 things I want to talk about, but I've lost my confidence some- 
 how in any one being interested in what I think." 
 
 "If you imagine it was the fog," said Martha Proctor, "that 
 brought me in to-day, you are greatly mistaken. I've been 
 meaning to come for weeks. You say you're diffident, well, I'm 
 diffident too, although I wouldn't have any one in the world 
 to know it. Here I am at forty-two, and I'm a failure. No, 
 don't protest. Ifs true. I know I've got a name and something 
 of a position and young authors are said to wait nervously fox
 
 240 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 my Olympian utterances, but as a matter of fact I've got about 
 as much influence and power as that jam-pot there. But it isn't 
 only with myself I'm disappointed I'm disappointed with 
 everybody." 
 
 She paused then, as though she expected Peter to say some- 
 thing, so he said: 
 
 "That's pretty sweeping." 
 
 "No, it isn't. The state of literature in London is rotten, 
 more rotten than Fve ever known it. Everybody over forty is 
 tired and down and out, and everybody under thirty has swelled 
 head. And they're all in sets and cliques. And they're all 
 hating one another and abusing one another and running their 
 own little pets. And all the little pets that might have 
 turned into good writers if they'd been let alone have been spoiled 
 and ruined." She paused for breath, then went on, growing 
 really excited: "Look at young Burnley for instance. There's 
 quite a promising dramatist you know that The Ewers' 
 Family was a jolly good play. Then Monteith gets hold of 
 him, persuades him that he's a critic, which, poor infant, he 
 never was and never will be, lets him loose on his paper and 
 ruins his character. Yes, ruins it! Six months later he's 
 reviewing the same book in four different papers under four 
 different names, and hasn't the least idea that he's doing any- 
 thing dishonest ! 
 
 "But Burnley isn't the point. If s the general state of things. 
 Monteith and Murphy and the rest think they're Olympian. 
 They're as full of prejudices as an egg is full of meat, and they 
 haven't got a grain of humour amongst the lot. They aren't 
 consciously dishonest, but they run round and round after their 
 own tails with their eyes on the ground. Now, I'm only saying 
 what lots of us are feeling. We want literature to become a 
 jollier, freer thing ; to be quit of schools and groups, and to have 
 altogether more fun in it. That's why I've come to you !" 
 
 "To me !" said Peter, laughing. "I'm not generally considered 
 the most amusing dog in London " 
 
 "No, you're not," said Miss Proctor. "People don't know 
 you, of course. Lots of them think you dull and conceited. 
 You may be proud, but you're certainly not conceited and 
 you're not dufl."
 
 THE RETURN 241 
 
 "Thank you/' said Peter. 
 
 "No, but seriously, a lot of us have been considering you 
 lately. You see, you're honest no one would deny that and 
 you're independent, and even if you're proud you're not so 
 damned proud as Monteith, and you haven't got a literary 
 nursery of admiring pupils. You'd be surprised, though, if 
 you knew how many friends you have got." 
 
 "I should be indeed," said Peter. 
 
 "Well, you have. Of course Janet Eoss and the others of her 
 kind think you're no good, but those are just the cliques we 
 want to get away from. To cut a long story short, some of us 
 Gardiner, Morris, Billy Wells, Thompson, Thurtell, and there 
 are others want you to join us." 
 
 "What are you going to do ?" 
 
 "Nothing very definite at the moment. We are going to be 
 apart from all cliques and sets " 
 
 "I see " interrupted Peter, "be an anti-clique clique." 
 
 "Not at all," said Martha Proctor. "We aren't going to call 
 ourselves anything or have meetings in an A.B.C. shop or any- 
 thing of the kind. It is possible that there there'll be a paper 
 one day a jolly kind of paper that will admit any sort of 
 literature if it's good of its kind; not only novels about intro- 
 spective women and poems about young men's stomachs on a 
 spring morning. I don't know. All we want now is to be a 
 little happier about things in general, to be a little less jealous 
 of writing that isn't quite our kind and, above all, not to be, 
 Olympian !" 
 
 She banged the table with her hand and the jam-pot jumped. 
 "I hate the Olympians ! Damn the Olympians ! Self-conscious 
 Olympians are the worst things God ever made . . . I'm a fool, 
 you're not very bright, but we're not Olympian, therefore lef a 
 have tea together once or twice a year !" 
 
 Soon after that she went. Peter had promised to come to 
 her flat one evening soon and meet some of her friends. She 
 left him in a state of very pleasureable excitement. 
 
 He walked up and down his room, lurching a little from leg 
 to leg like a sailor on his deck. Yes, he was awfully pleased 
 awfully pleased. . . . Somebody wanted him. Somebody thought 
 his opinion worth having.
 
 242 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 There were friendly faces, kindly voices waiting for him. 
 
 His ambition leapt up again like fire. Life was not over for 
 him, and although he might never write a fine book nor a word 
 that would be remembered after he was gone, yet he could help, 
 take his share in the movement, encourage a little what seemed 
 to him good, fight against everything that was false and pre- 
 tentious and insincere. 
 
 He felt as though some one were pushing the pieces of the 
 game at last in his favour. For long he had been baffled, be- 
 trayed, checked. Now everything was moving together for him. 
 Even Millie. . . ! 
 
 He stopped in his walk, staring at the window behind whose 
 panes the fog lay now like bales of dirty cotton. Millie ! Per- 
 haps this engagement of hers was not a success. H? did not 
 know why but he had an impression that all was not well with 
 her. Something that Henry had said in a letter. Something. 
 ... So long as she were still there so that he might see her and 
 tell her of his work. See her, her colour, her eyes, her hands, 
 her movement as she walked, her smile so kindly and then a 
 little scornful as though she were telling herself that it was 
 not grown-up to show kindness too readily, that they must under- 
 stand that she was grown up. . . . 
 
 Oh, bless her ! He would be her true friend whatever course 
 her life might take, however small a share himself might have 
 in it. 
 
 He stared at the window and his happiness, his new ambition 
 and confidence were suddenly penetrated by some chill breath. 
 By what? He could not tell. He stood there looking in front 
 of him, seeing nothing but the grey shadows that coiled and 
 uncoiled against the glass. 
 
 What was it ? His heart seemed to stand still in some sudden 
 anticipation. What was it? Was some one coming? He 
 listened. There was no sound but a sudden cry from the fog, 
 a dim taxi-whistle. Something was about to happen. He was 
 sure as one is sure in dreams with a knowledge that is simply 
 an anticipation of something that one has already been through. 
 Just like this once he had stood, waiting in a closed room. 
 Once before. Where ? Who was coming ? Some one out in the 
 fog was now looking at the number of his house-door. Some
 
 THE RETURN" 243 
 
 one had stepped into the house. Some one was walking slowly 
 up the stairs, looking at the cards upon the doors. It was as 
 though he were chained, enchanted to the spot. Now his own 
 floor. A pause outside his door. When suddenly his bell rang 
 he felt no surprise, only a strange hesitation before he moved 
 as though a voice were saying to him: "This is going to be 
 very difficult for you. Pull yourself together. You'll need 
 your courage/' 
 
 He opened his door and peered out. The passage was dark. 
 A woman was there, standing back, leaning against the ban- 
 nisters. 
 
 "Who's there ?" he called. His voiced echoed back to him from 
 the empty staircase. The woman made no answer, standing 
 like a black shadow against the dark stain of the bannisters. 
 
 "Do you want anything?" asked Peter. "Did you ring my 
 bell?" ' 
 
 She moved then ever so slightly. In a hoarse whisper she 
 said : "I want to speak to Mr. Westcott." 
 
 "I'm Peter Westcott," he answered. 
 
 She moved again, coming a little nearer. 
 
 "I want to sit down," she said. "I'm not very well." She 
 gave a little sigh, her arms moved in a gesture of protest and 
 she sank upon the floor. He went to her, lifted her up (he felt 
 at once how small she was and slight), carried her into his room 
 and laid her on his old green-backed sofa. 
 
 Then, bending over her, he saw that she was his wife, Clare. 
 
 Instantly he was flooded, body and soul, with pity. He had, 
 he could have, no other sense but that. It had been, perhaps, 
 all his life even during those childish years of defiance of his 
 father the strongest emotion in him it was called forth now as 
 it had never been before. 
 
 He had hurried into his bedroom, fetched water, bathed her 
 forehead, her hands, taken off the shabby hat, unfastened the 
 faded black dress at the throat, still she lay there, her eyes 
 closed in the painted and powdered face, the body crumpled up 
 on the sofa as though it were broken in every limb. 
 
 Broken ! Indeed she was ! It was nearly twenty years since 
 he had last seen her, since that moment when she had turned 
 back at the door, looking at him with that strange appeal in her
 
 244 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 eyes, the appeal that had failed. He heard again, as though 
 it had been only yesterday, her voice in their last conversation 
 "I've got a headache. I'm going upstairs to lie down. . . . " 
 And that had been the end. 
 
 She smelt of some horrible scent, the powder on her face blew 
 off in little dry flakes, her hair was still that same wonderful 
 colour, yellow gold; she must be forty now her body was as 
 slight and childish as it had been twenty years ago. He rubbed 
 her hands : they were not clean and the nails were broken. 
 
 She moved restlessly without opening her eyes, as though in 
 her sleep, she pushed against him, then freed her hands from 
 his, muttering. He caught some words : "No, Alex no. Don't 
 hurt me. I want to be happy ! Oh, I want to be happy ! Oh, 
 don't hurt me! Don't!" 
 
 All this in a little whimper as though she had no strength 
 left with which to cry out. Then her eyes opened: she stared 
 about her, first at the ceiling, then at the table and chairs, then 
 at Peter. 
 
 She frowned at him. "I oughtn't to have come here," she 
 said. "You don't want me not after all this time. Did I 
 faint? How silly of me!" She pushed herself up. "That's 
 because I'm so hungry so dreadfully hungry. I've had noth- 
 ing to eat for two days except what that man gave me at the 
 station ... I feel sick but I must eat something " 
 
 "Hungry !" he sprang to his feet. "Just lie there a minute 
 and rest. Close your eyes. There ! Lie back again ! I'll have 
 something ready in a moment." 
 
 He rushed into the little kitchen, found the kettle, filled it 
 and put it on the sitting-room fire. The tea-things were still 
 on the table, a plate with cakes, a loaf of bread, the pot of jam. 
 She was sitting up staring at them. She got up and moved 
 across to the table. "Cut me some bread quickly. Never mind 
 about the tea." 
 
 He cut her some bread and butter. She began to eat, tearing 
 the bread with her fingers, her eyes staring at the cakes. She 
 snatched two of them and began to eat them with the bread. 
 Suddenly she stopped. 
 
 "Oh, I can't!" she whispered. "I'm so hungry, but I can't 
 I'm going to be sick."
 
 THE KETUKN" 245 
 
 He led her into his bedroom, his arm around her. There- 
 she was very ill. Afterwards white and trembling she lay on 
 his bed. He put the counterpane over her, and then said: 
 
 "Would you like a doctor?" She was shivering from head 
 to foot. 
 
 "No/' she whispered. "Would you make me some tea very 
 hot?" 
 
 He went into the sitting-room and in a fever of impatience 
 waited for the kettle to boil. He stood there, watching it, his 
 own emotion so violent that his knees and hands were trembling. 
 
 "Poor little thing! Poor little thing! Poor little thing!" 
 He found that he was repeating the words aloud. . . . The lid 
 of the kettle suddenly lifted. He made the tea and carried it 
 into the other room. It was dark now, with the fog and the 
 early evening. He switched on the light and then as she turned, 
 making a slight movement of protest with her hand, he switched 
 it off again. She sat up a little, catching at the cup, and then 
 began to drink it with eager, thirsty gulps. 
 
 "Ah, that's good !" he heard her murmur. "Good !" He gave 
 her some more, then a third cup. With a little sigh she sank 
 back satisfied. She lay then without speaking and he thought 
 she was asleep. He drew a chair to the bedside and sat down 
 there, leaning forward a little towards her. He could not see 
 her now at all : the room was quite dark. 
 
 Suddenly she began to speak in a low, monotonous voice 
 
 "I oughtn't to have come. . . . Do you know I nearly came 
 once last year? I was awfully hard up and I got your address 
 from the publishers. I didn't like to go to them again this 
 time. It was just chance that you might still be here. I 
 wouldn't have come to you at all if I hadn't been so hard 
 up. ... ' ; 
 
 "Hush," he said, "you oughtn't to talk. Try and sleep/' 
 
 She laughed. "You say that just as you used to. You aren't 
 changed very much, fatter a bit. I'd have known you anywhere. 
 I wouldn't have come if I'd known where Benois was. He's in 
 London somewhere, but he's given me the slip. Not the first 
 time either. . . . I'm not going to stay here, you know. You 
 needn't be frightened." 
 
 The voice was changed terribly. He would have recognized
 
 246 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 it from the thin sharp note, almost of complaint, that was still 
 in it, but it was thickened, coarsened, with a curious catch in 
 it as though her breathing were difficult. 
 
 "Don't talk now. Rest!" he repeated. 
 
 <f Yes, you're not changed a bit. Fatter of course. I've often 
 wondered what you'd turned into. How you got on in the War. 
 You know Jerry was killed quite early, at the beginning. He 
 was in the French Army. He treated me badly. But every 
 one's treated me badly. All I wanted was to be happy. I didn't 
 mean to do any one any harm. It's cruel the way I've been 
 treated." 
 
 Her voice died off into a murmur. He caught only the words 
 "Benois . . . Paris . . . Station." 
 
 Soon he heard her breathing, soft with a little catch in it like 
 a strangled sob. He sat on then, hearing nothing but that little 
 catch. He did not think at all. He could see nothing. He was 
 sightless in a blind world, coil after coil of grey vapour moving 
 about him, enclosing him, releasing him, enclosing him again 
 "Poor little thing!" "Poor little thing!" "Poor little thing!" 
 
 He did not move as the evening passed into night.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 BUNCOMBE SAYS GOOD-BYE 
 
 AT the moment when Clare Westcott was climbing the stairs 
 to her husband's rooms Henry Trenchard was walking 
 up the drive through the Buncombe park. The evening air was 
 dark and misty with a thin purple thread of colour that filtered 
 through the bare trees and shone in patches of lighted shadow 
 against tall outlines of the road. Everything was very still: 
 even his steps were muffled by the matted carpet of dead leaves 
 that had not been swept from the drive. He had told them the 
 time of his arrival but there had been nothing at the station 
 to meet him. That did not surprise him. It had happened 
 before; you could always find a fly at the little inn. But this 
 evening he had wanted to walk the few miles. Something made 
 him wish to postpone the arrival if he could. 
 
 The day after to-morrow Duncombe was to go up to London 
 for his operation. Henry hated scenes and emotional atmos- 
 pheres and he knew that Duncombe also hated them. Every- 
 thing of course would be very quiet during those two days 
 beautifully restrained in the best English fashion, but the emo- 
 tion would be there. No one would be frank; every one would 
 pretend to be gay with that horrible pretence that Englishmen 
 succeed in so poorly. No one would be worse at it than Henry 
 himself. 
 
 As he turned the corner of the drive that gave the first view 
 of the house a thin white light, a last pale flicker before dusk, 
 enveloped the world, spread across the lawn and shone upon the 
 square, thickset building as though a sheet of very thin glass 
 had suddenly been lowered from the sky. The trees were black 
 as ink, the grass grey, but the house was illumined with a 
 ghastly radiancy under the bare branches and the pale evening 
 sky. The light passed and the house was in dusk. 
 
 247
 
 248 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 When he had been up to his room and come down to the little 
 drawing-room he found Alicia Penrose. "She's been asked to 
 make things easier/' he said to himself. He was glad. He was 
 not afraid of her as he was of some people and he fancied that 
 she rather liked him. In her presence he always felt himself 
 an untidy, uncouth schoolboy, but to-night he was not thinking 
 of himself. He knew that beneath her nonsense she was a good 
 sort. She was standing, legs apart, in front of the fire ; she was 
 wearing a costume of broad checks, like a chessboard. It reached 
 just below the knees, but she had fine legs, slim, strong, sensible. 
 Her hair, brushed straight back from her forehead, was jet 
 black; she had beautiful, small, strong hands. 
 
 "Well, Trenchard," she said, "had enough of London?" 
 
 He stammered, laughed and said nothing. 
 
 "Why do you always behave like a complete idiot when you're 
 with me?" she asked. "You're not an idiot know you're not 
 from what Buncombe has told me always behave like one with 
 me." 
 
 "Perhaps you terrify me !" said Henry. 
 
 "Damn being terrified! Why be terrified of anybody? All 
 the same, all of us. Legs, arms All dead soon." 
 
 "Shyness is a very difficult thing," said Henry. "I've suffered 
 from it all my life partly because I'm conceited and partly 
 because I'm not conceited enough." 
 
 "Have you indeed?" said Lady Alicia, looking at him with 
 interest. "Now that's the first interestin' thing you've ever 
 said to me. Expect you could say a lot of things like that if 
 you tried." 
 
 "Oh, I'm clever!" said Henry. "The trouble is that my 
 looks are against me. That's funny, too, because I have a most 
 beautiful sister and another sister is quite nice-looking. I sup- 
 pose they took all the looks of the family and there were none 
 left for me." 
 
 Lady Alicia considered him. 
 
 "But you're not bad-lookin'," she said. "Not at all. Ifs 
 an interestin' face. You look as though you were a poet or 
 something. It's your clothes. Why do you dress so badly?" 
 
 "My clothes are all right when I buy them," said Henry 
 blushing. (This was a sensitive point with him.) "I go to
 
 BUNCOMBE SAYS GOOD-BYE 249 
 
 a very good tailor. But when I've worn them a week or two 
 they're like nothing on earth, although I put them under my 
 bed and have a trousers press. I look very fine in the morning 
 sometimes just for five minutes, hut in an hour it's all gone." 
 
 Lady Alicia laughed. 
 
 "You want to marry some woman who'll look after you." 
 
 Next moment Henry had a shock. The door opened and in 
 came Tom Duncombe. Henry had not seen him since the day 
 of their encounter. In spite of himself his heart failed him. 
 What would happen? How awful if, in front of Lady Alicia, 
 Duncombe went for him ! What should he do ? How maintain 
 his dignity? How not show himself the silly young fool that 
 he felt? 
 
 Duncombe crossed the room, fat, red-faced, smiling. "Well, 
 Alice," he said, "glad to see you. How's everything?" 
 
 Then he turned to Henry, holding out his hand. 
 
 "Glad to see you, Trenchard," he said. "Hope you're fit." 
 
 "Very," said Henry. 
 
 They shook hands. 
 
 That evening was a strange one. The comedy of Old Masks 
 to Hide a New Tragedy was played with the greatest success. 
 A thoroughly English piece, played with all the best English 
 restraint and fine discipline. Sir Charles Duncombe as the hero 
 was altogether admirable, and Lady Bell-Hall as the heroine 
 won, and indeed, deserved, rounds of applause. Lady Alicia 
 Penrose as the Comic Guest played in her own inimitable style 
 a part exactly suited to her talents. Minor roles were suitably 
 taken by Thomas Duncombe, Henry Trenchard and Miss Bella 
 Smith as Florence, a Parlourmaid. . . . 
 
 Henry was amazed to see Lady Bell-Hall's splendid sang- 
 froid. The house was tumbling about her head, her beloved 
 brother was in all probability leaving her for ever, the whole of 
 her material conditions were to change and be transformed, 
 yet she, who beyond all women depended upon the permanence 
 of minute signs and witnesses, gave herself no faintest whisper 
 of apprehension. 
 
 Magnificent little woman, with her pug nose and puffing 
 cheeks; dreading her Eevolution, screaming at the prophecies 
 of it, turning no hair when it was actually upon her ! Threaten
 
 250 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 an Englishman with imagination and he will quail indeed, face 
 him with facts and nothing can shake his courage and dogged 
 pugnacity. Imagination is the Achilles heel of the English 
 character . . . after which great thought Henry discovered that 
 he was last with his soup and every one was waiting for him. 
 
 Alicia Penrose carried the evening on her shoulders. She 
 was superh. Her chatter gave every one what was needed 
 time to build up battlements round reality BO that to-morrow 
 should not be disgraced. 
 
 Tom Buncombe ably seconded her. 
 
 "Seen old Lady Adela lately?" he would ask. 
 
 "Adela Beaminster ?" Alicia was greatly amused. "Oh, but 
 haven't you heard about her? She's got a medium to live with 
 her in her flat in Knightsbridge and talks to her mother every 
 mornin' at eleven-fifteen." 
 
 "What, the old Duchess?" 
 
 "Yes. You know what a bully she was when she was alive 
 well, she's much worse now she's dead. Medium's Mrs. Bate- 
 son you must have heard of her Creole woman found Peggy 
 Nestle's pearl necklace for her last year, said it was at the 
 bottom of a well in a village near Salisbury, and so it was. 
 Of course she'd taken it first and put it there all the same 
 it did her an immense amount of good. Old Lady Adela saw 
 her at somebody's house and carried her off there and then. 
 Now at eleven-fifteen every morning up springs the Duchess, 
 says she's very comfortable in heaven, thank you, and then tells 
 Adela what she's to do. Adela doesn't move a step without 
 her. Did her best to get old Lord John in on it too, but 
 he said 'No thank you.' He'd had enough of his mother when 
 she was alive, and he wasn't goin' to start in again now 
 he was over eighty and is bound to be meeting her in a 
 year or two anyway. Why, he says, these few days left to him 
 are all he's got and he's not going to lose 'em. But Adela's 
 quite mad. When you go and have tea with her, just as she's 
 givin' you your second cup she says, 'Hush ! Isn't that mother ?' 
 Then she calls out in her cracked voice, 'Is that you, mother 
 darlin'?' then, if it is, she goes away and you never see your 
 second cup " . . . 
 
 A sudden silence. Down every one goes, down into their own
 
 BUNCOMBE SAYS GOOD-BYE 251 
 
 thoughts. About the house, in and out of the passages, through 
 the doors and windows, figures are passing. Faces, pale and 
 thin, are pressed against the window-panes. Into the dining- 
 room itself the figures are crowding, turning towards the table, 
 whispering : "Do not desert us ! Do not abandon us ! We are 
 part of you, we belong to you. You cannot leave the past be- 
 hind. You must take us with you. We love you so, take us, 
 take us with you!" 
 
 Alicia's voice rose again. 
 
 "But every one's a crank now, Charles. In this year of 
 grace 1920 ifs the only thing to be. You've got to be queer 
 one way or t'other. That's why young Pomfret keeps geese in 
 his flat in Parkside. He feeds them in a sort of manger at the 
 back of his dinin'-room. He likes them for their intelligence, 
 he says. You've simply got to be queer or no one will look at 
 you for a moment. That's why they started the Pyjama Society, 
 Luxmoore and Young Barrax, and some others. You have to* 
 swear that you'll never wear any thin' but pyjamas, and they've 
 got special warm ones with fur inside for the cold weather. 
 It's catchin' on like anythin'. It's so comfortable and economi- 
 cal too after the first expense. Then there's the Coloured Hair 
 lot that Lady Bengin started you all have to wear coloured 
 wigs, green and purple and orange. You put on a new wig for 
 lunch just as you used to put on a new hat. There's a shop 
 opened in Lover Street Montayne's specially for these wigs. 
 Expensive, of course, but not much more than a decent hat !" 
 
 Closer the pale figures pressed into the room, smiling, wist- 
 fully watching, tenderly waiting for their host so soon now to 
 join them. 
 
 "Do not leave us! Do not forsake us! We must go with 
 you! the beauty of life comes from us as well as from you, 
 do not desert us ! We are your friends ! We love you !" 
 
 "Well, I'm sure," said Lady Bell-Hall, searching for her 
 crystallized sugar at the bottom of her coffee cup, "I never 
 know whether to believe half the things you say, Alicia." 
 
 "Ha, ha, ha !" laughed Tom Duncombe. "You're right, Meg, 
 don't you believe her. You stick to me." 
 
 But as the two women went out of the room together one 
 whispered to the other:
 
 252 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 'Tou are kind, Alicia. . . . I'll never forget it." 
 
 The next day was a wild one of wind and rain. Sain slashed 
 the windows and spurted upon the lawns, died away into grey 
 sodden clouds, burst forth again and was whirled by the wind 
 with a noise like singing hail against the shining panes. The 
 day passed without any incident. The normal life of the house 
 was carried on. Henry worked in the library. Buncombe came 
 in, found a book, went out again. The evening the last even- 
 ing was upon them all with a startling suddenness. The 
 women went up to their rooms; Charles Buncombe, his face 
 grey and drawn, stopped Henry. 
 
 "Wait a minute," he said. "I'm going round the house for 
 the last time. Come with me." 
 
 He lit a candle and they started. The rain had died now to 
 a comfortable purr. Into every room they went, the candle, 
 raised high, throwing a splash of colour, marking pools of 
 flickering light. 
 
 The old bedroom near the Chapel seemed to hold Buncombe. 
 He stood there staring, the candlestick steady in his hand, but 
 his eyes staring as though in a dream. 
 
 He sat down in a chair near the four-poster. 
 
 "We'll stop here a moment," he said to Henry. "Ifs the least 
 I can do for the old room. It knows I'm going. This was the 
 bridal-chamber of the old Buncombes," he said. "Lady Emily 
 Buncombe died in this room on her wedding-night. Heart 
 failure. In other words, terror. . . . Poor little thing." 
 
 "And now I'm going to die too." Henry said something in 
 protest. "Oh, of course there's a chance a-million-to-one 
 chance. ...''' He looked up, smiling. "I'll tell you one thing, 
 Henry. Pain, if you have much of it, makes death a most 
 desirable thing. Pain! Why Fd no idea at the beginning of 
 what pain really was until this last year. Now I know. Many 
 times I've wanted to die these last months, just before it comes 
 on, when you know it's coming. . . . Pain, yes I know some- 
 thing about that now." 
 
 He had placed the candle on a table near to him. He raised 
 it now above his head. "Bear old room. I remember crawling
 
 BUNCOMBE SAYS GOOD-BYE 253 
 
 in here when I was about three and hiding from my nurse. They 
 couldn't find me for ever so long. . . . And now it's all over/' 
 
 Henry said: "Not over if you've cared for it." 
 
 "By Jove, there's something in that," Buncombe answered. 
 "And I depend on you to carry it on. It's strange how my 
 thoughts have centred round you these last weeks. If I get 
 through this by good fortune I'll talk to you a bit, tell you 
 things I've never told a living soul. I've always been alone 
 all my life, not because I wanted to be, but just because I'm 
 English. I've seen other men look at me just as I've looked 
 at them, as though they longed to speak but their English edu- 
 cation wouldn't let them lest they should make fools of them- 
 selves. Then human beings have seemed to me so disappointing, 
 so weak, so foolish. Not that I've thought myself any better. 
 No, indeed. But we're a poor lot, there's no doubt about it. 
 
 "You're honest, Henry, and loyal and affectionate. Stick 
 to those three things for all you're worth. You've been born 
 into a wonderful time. Make something of it. Bon't be 
 passive. Throw yourself into it. And take all this with you. 
 Make the past and the present and the future one. Join them 
 all together for the glory of God and sometimes think of your 
 old friend who loves you." 
 
 He came across to Henry, kissed him on the forehead and 
 patted him on the shoulder. 
 
 "I'm tired," he said, "damned tired. These haven't been 
 easy weeks." 
 
 Henry said: "I think you're going to come through. If 
 you do it will be wonderful for me. If you don't I'll never 
 forget you. I'll think of you always. I'll try to do as you say." 
 
 Buncombe smiled. "Look after my sister. Bring out the 
 book with a bang. We'll meet again one day." 
 
 Henry saw the candle-light trail down the passage and dis- 
 appear. He fumbled his way to his room. 
 
 Next morning Charles Duncombe went up to London. There 
 was no sign of emotion at his departure; it was as though he 
 would be back before they could turn round. He was his dry, 
 cynical self. He merely nodded to Henry, looking at him a little 
 sternly before he climbed into the car. "I'll see that Spencer
 
 254: THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 sends you those notes," he said. "Meanwhile you'd better he 
 getting on with that Ballantyne press/' He nodded still sternly, 
 smiled with his accustomed irony at his sister and was gone. 
 
 Tom Buncombe and Alicia Penrose disappeared then for the 
 day, rattling over in a very ancient hired taxi to see the Seddons, 
 who were living just then some thirty miles away. Henry tried 
 to fling himself into his work; manfully he sat in the little 
 library driving through the intricacies of Ballantyne finances, 
 striving desperately to lose himself in that old Edinburgh at- 
 mosphere and friendly company. It could not be done. He 
 saw, stalking towards him across the leaf-sodden lawn, the 
 harshest melancholy that his young life had ever known. He 
 had faced before now his unhappy times in his younger years 
 he had rebelled and sulked and made himself a curse to every 
 one around him ! he was growing older now. He was becoming 
 a man, but the struggle was none the easier because he was 
 learning how to deal with it. 
 
 He gave up his work, stared out for a little on to the grass 
 pale under a thin autumn sun, then felt that he must move 
 about or die. . . . 
 
 He went out into the hall; the whole place seemed deserted 
 and dead; the hall door was open and from far away came the 
 dim creaking of a cart. A little, chill, autumnal wind blew a 
 thin eddy of leaves a few paces into the hall. Suddenly he heard 
 a sound some one was crying. Like any boy he hated above 
 everything to hear a grown person cry. His immediate instinct 
 was to run for his life. Then he was drawn against his will 
 but by his natural instincts of tenderness and kindness towards 
 the sound. He pushed back the drawing-room door that was 
 ajar and looked into the room. Lady Bell-Hall was sitting 
 there, crumpled up on the sofa, her head in her arms, crying 
 desperately. 
 
 He knew that he should go away; the English instinct deep 
 in him that he must not make a fool of himself warned him 
 that she did not like him, that she had never liked him and 
 that she would hate that he above all people should see her in 
 this fashion. There was nevertheless something so desolate and 
 lonely in her unhappiness that he could not go. He stood there 
 for a moment, then very gently closed the door. She heard the
 
 BUNCOMBE SAYS GOOD-BYE 255 
 
 sound and looked up. She saw who it was and hurriedly sat 
 erect, tried to assume dignity, rolling a handkerchief nervously 
 between her hands and frowning. . . . 
 
 "Well," she said in a strange little voice with a crack and 
 a sob in it, "what is it?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon," he stammered. "I wondered I was 
 thinking that perhaps there was something " 
 
 "No," she answered hurriedly, not looking at him. "Thank 
 you. There's nothing." 
 
 She sniffed, blew her nose, then suddenly began to sob again, 
 turning to the mantelpiece, leaning her head upon her arms. 
 
 He waited, seeing such incongruous things as that a grey lock 
 of hair had escaped its pins and was trailing down over the black 
 silk collar of her blouse, that Pretty One was fast asleep, snoring 
 in her basket, undisturbed by her mistress's grief, that last 
 week's Spectator had fallen from the table on to the floor, that 
 the silver calendar on the writing-table asserted that they were 
 still in the month of May whatever the weather might pretend. 
 
 He came nearer to her. "I do want you to know," he said, 
 blushing awkwardly, "how I understand what you must be feel- 
 ing, and that I myself feel some of it too." 
 
 She turned round at him, looked aj; him with her short- 
 sighted eyes as though she were seeing him for the first time, 
 then sat down again on the sofa. 
 
 "You do think he's going to get well, don't you?" she said 
 suddenly. "This isn't serious, this operation, is it? Tell me, 
 tell me it isn't." 
 
 He lied to her because he knew that she knew that he was 
 lying and that she wanted him to lie. 
 
 "Of course he's going to come through it," he said. "And 
 be better than he's ever been in his life before. Doctors are so 
 wonderful now. They can do anything." 
 
 "Oh, I do hope so! I do indeed! He wouldn't let me go 
 up with him, although I did want to be there. I nursed my 
 dear husband through three terrible illnesses so I have much 
 experience. . . . But I'm going up to-morrow to Hill Street 
 to be near in case he should need me." 
 
 She blinked at Henry, then patted the sofa.
 
 256 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 "Come and sit here and talk to me. ... It is very kind of 
 you to speak as you do." 
 
 Henry sat down. She looked at him more closely. "I wish 
 I liked you better," she said. "I have tried very hard to. 
 Charles likes you so much and says you're so clever." 
 
 "I'm sorry you don't like me, Lady Bell-Hall/' said Henry. 
 "I would do anything in the world for your brother. I think 
 he's the finest man I have ever known." 
 
 This set Lady Bell-Hall sobbing again : "He is ! Oh, he is ! 
 Indeed he is !" she cried, waving one little hand in the air while 
 with the other she wiped her eyes. "No one can know as well 
 as I know how kind he is and good . . . and it's so wicked . . . 
 when he's so good that they should take away his money and 
 his house that he loves and has always been in the family and 
 give it to people who aren't nearly so good. Why do they do it ? 
 
 What right have they ?" She broke off, looking at him with 
 
 sudden suspicion. "Oh, I suppose it all seems right to you," 
 she said. "You're the new generation, I suppose that's why I 
 don't like you. I don't like the new generation. All you boys 
 and girls are irreligious and immoral and selfish. You don't 
 respect your parents and you don't believe in God. You think 
 you know everything and you're hard-hearted. The world has 
 become a terrible place and the wrath of God will surely be 
 called down upon it." 
 
 Henry said quietly: 
 
 "After a war like the one there's just been it always takes a 
 long time to settle down, doesn't it? And all the young genera- 
 tion aren't as you say. For instance, I have a splendid sister 
 who is as modern as anybody, but she isn't immoral and she 
 isn't hard-hearted and she doesn't think she knows everything. 
 I think many girls now are fine, with their courage and inde- 
 pendence and honesty. Hypocrisy is leaving England at last. 
 If s been with us quite long enough." 
 
 Lady Bell-Hall shook her head. "I daresay you're right. 
 I'm sure I don't know, I don't understand any of you. I'm lost 
 in this new world. The sooner I die the better." She got up 
 and walked with great dignity across the room. She looked back 
 at Henry rather wistfully. "You do seem a kind young man 
 and Charles is very fond of you. I don't want to be unjust.
 
 DUTSTCOMBE SAYS GOOD-BYE 257 
 
 I don't indeed!" She suddenly put up her hand and realized 
 the escaping lock of hair. She cried, "Oh, dear!" in a little 
 frightened whisper, then hurried from the room. 
 
 Henry waited a little, then, feeling his own loneliness and 
 desolation in the chilly place, hroke out into the garden. He 
 wandered down the paths until he found himself in a little rough- 
 grassed orchard that hung precariously on the hend of the hill, 
 above a little trout-stream and a clumsy, chattering water-mill. 
 
 Under the bare trees he stood and stared at himself. As a 
 boy the principal note in his character perhaps had been his 
 suspicion of human nature, and his suspicion of it especially 
 in its relation to himself. The War, his life in London, his 
 close intimacy with Peter and Millie had robbed him of much 
 of this, but these influences had not brought him to that stage 
 of sophistication that would establish him upon such superiority 
 that he need never be suspicious again. He would in all prob- 
 ability never become sophisticated. There was something naive 
 in his character that would accompany him to his grave; he was 
 none the worse for that. 
 
 And it was this very naivete that Lady Bell-Hall had just 
 roused. As he walked in the orchard he was miserable, lonely, 
 self-distrustful. He seemed to be deserted of all men. Christina 
 was far, far away. Millie and Peter did not exist. His work 
 was nothing. He was out of tune with the universe. He felt 
 behind him the house, the lands, the country falling into ruin. 
 His affection for Buncombe, his master, was affronted by the 
 vision of brother Tom, flushed and eager, selling his family for 
 thirty pieces of silver. He and his generation could assist only 
 at the breaking of the old world, not at the making of the 
 new. . . . 
 
 He looked up and saw between the leafless branches of the 
 trees the sky shredding into lines of winged and fleecy little 
 clouds that ran in cohorts across a sky suddenly blue. The wind 
 had fallen; there was utter stillness. The sun, itself invisible, 
 suddenly with a royal gesture flung its light in sheets of silver 
 across the brown tree-trunks, the thick and tangled grass. The 
 light was so suddenly brilliant that Henry, looking up, was 
 dazzled. It seemed to him that for an instant the sky was filled 
 with shining forms.
 
 258 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 He had the sense that he had known so often before that in 
 another moment some great vision would be granted him. 
 
 He waited, his hand above his eyes, his heart suddenly flooded 
 with happiness and reassurance. A little wind rose, a sigh ran 
 through the trees and drops of rain like glittering sparks from 
 the sun touched his forehead. Shadow ran along the ground as 
 though from the sweep of a giant's wing. 
 
 Strangely comforted he walked back to the house. 
 
 Next morning, in the company of Lady Bell-Hall, Lady 
 Alicia and Tom Buncombe, he left for Hill Street.
 
 CHAPTEE VIII 
 
 HERE COURAGE IS NEEDED 
 
 VICTOEIA PLATT was seated in her little dressing-room 
 surrounded with fragments of coloured silk. She was 
 choosing curtains for the dining-room. She was not yet com- 
 pletely dressed, and a bright orange wrapper enfolded her shape- 
 less body. Millie stood beside her. 
 
 "I know you like bright colours, my Millie," she said, "so 
 I can't think what you can object to in this pink. I think it's 
 a pet of a colour." 
 
 "Pink isn't right for a dining-room," said Millie. (She had 
 not slept during the preceding night and was feeling in no very 
 amiable temper.) 
 
 "Not right for a dining-room?" Victoria repeated. "Why, 
 Major Mereward said it was just the thing." 
 
 "You know perfectly well," answered Millie, "that in the first 
 place Major Mereward has no taste, and that secondly he always 
 says whatever you want him to say." 
 
 "No taste! Why, I think his taste is splendid! Certainly 
 he's not artistic like Mr. Bennett, who may be said to have a 
 little too much taste sometimes 
 
 "But, dear me, that was a* lovely dinner he gave us at the 
 Carlton last night. Now wasn't it ? You can't deny it although 
 you we prejudiced " 
 
 "That you gave, you mean," Millie snorted. "Yes, I daresay 
 he likes nothing better than ordering the best dinners possible 
 at other people's expense. He's quite ready, I'm sure, to go on 
 doing that to the end of his time." 
 
 Victoria forgot her silks and looked up at her young friend. 
 
 "Why, Millie, what has come to you lately? You're not at 
 all as you used to be. You're always speaking contemptuously 
 of people nowadays. And you're not looking well. You're tired, 
 darling "
 
 260 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 "Oh, I'm all right," Millie moved impatiently away. "Yon 
 know I hate that man. He's vulgar, coarse and selfish/' 
 
 Victoria was offended. 
 
 "You've no right to speak of my friends that way. . . . But 
 I'm not going to be cross with you. No, I'm not. You're tired 
 and not yourself. Dr. Brooker was saying so only yesterday." 
 
 "There's no reason for Dr. Brooker to interfere. When I 
 want his advice I'll ask for it." 
 
 Victoria looked as suddenly distressed as a small child whose 
 doll has been taken away. 
 
 "I can't make you out, Millie. There's something making 
 you unhappy." 
 
 She looked up with a touching, anxious expression at the girl, 
 whose face was dark with some stormy trouble that seemed only 
 to bring out her loveliness the more, but was far indeed from 
 the happy, careless child Victoria had once known. 
 
 Millie's face changed. She suddenly flung herself down at 
 her friend's feet. 
 
 "Victoria, darling, I don't want you to marry that man. No, 
 I don't, I don't indeed. He's a bad man, bad in every way. 
 He only wants your money: he doesn't even pretend to want 
 anything else. And when he's got that he'll treat you so badly 
 that you'll be utterly wretched. You know yourself you will. 
 Oh, don't marry him, don't, don't, don't!" 
 
 Victoria's face was a curious mixture of offended pride and 
 tender affection. 
 
 "There, there, my Millie. Don't you worry. Whoever said 
 I was going to marry him? At the same time it isn't quite true 
 to say that he only cares for my money. I think he has a real 
 liking for myself. You haven't heard all the things he's said. 
 After all, I know him better than you do, Millie dear, and I'm 
 older than you as well. Yes, and you're prejudiced. You never 
 liked him from the first. He has his faults, of course, but so 
 have we all. He's quite frank about it. He's told me his life 
 hasn't been all that it should have been, but he's older now and 
 wiser. He wants to settle down with some one whom he can 
 really respect." 
 
 "Respect!" Millie broke out. "He doesn't respect any one. 
 He's an adventurer. He says he is. Oh, don't you see how
 
 HEEE COURAGE IS NEEDED 261 
 
 unhappy you'll be? You with your warm heart. He'll break 
 it in half a day." 
 
 Victoria sighed. "Perhaps he will. Perhaps I'm not so 
 blind as you think. But at least I'll have something first. I've 
 
 been an old maid so long. I want I want " She brushed 
 
 her eyes with her hand. "It's foolish a woman of my age talking 
 like this but age doesn't, as it ought, make as much difference." 
 
 "But you can have all that/' Millie cried. "The Major's a 
 good man and he does care for you, and he'd want to marry 
 you even though you hadn't a penny. I know he seems a little 
 dull, but we can put up with people's dullness if their heart's 
 right. It seems to me just now," she said, staring away across 
 the little sunlit room, "that nothing matters in a man beside his 
 honesty and his good heart. If you can't trust " 
 
 Victoria felt that the girl was trembling. She put her arms 
 closer around her and drew her nearer. 
 
 "Millie, darling, what's the matter? Tell me. Aren't you 
 happy? Tell me. I can't bear you to be unhappy. What does 
 it matter what happens to a silly old woman like me? I've only 
 got a few more years to live in any case. But you, so lovely, 
 with all your life in front of you. . . . Tell me, darling " 
 
 Millie shivered. "Never mind about me, Victoria. Things 
 aren't easy. He won't tell me the truth. I could stand any- 
 thing if only he wouldn't lie to me. I ought to leave him, I 
 suppose give him up. But I love him I love him so terribly." 
 
 She did, what was so rare with her, what Victoria had never 
 seen her do before, she burst into a passion of tears, sobbing 
 "I love him and I oughtn't to and every day I love him 
 more." 
 
 "Oh, my dear I'm afraid it is a great deal my fault. I should 
 have stopped it before it went so far but indeed I never knew 
 that it was on until it was over. And I liked him I see now 
 that I was wrong, but I'm not perhaps very clever about 
 people " 
 
 "No, no," Millie jumped to her feet. "You're not to say a 
 word against him. You're not indeed. It's myself who's to 
 blame for things being as they are. I should have been stronger 
 and forced him to take me to his mother. I despise myself. I
 
 262 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 who thought I was so strong. But we quarrel, and then I'm 
 sorry, and then we quarrel again." 
 
 She smiled, wiping her eyes. "Dear Victoria, I'm not so 
 fine as I thought myself that's all. You see I've never been in 
 love before. It will come right. It must come right " 
 
 She bent forward and kissed her friend. 
 
 "I'll go down now and get on with those letters. You're a 
 darling too good to me by far." 
 
 "I'm a silly old woman," Victoria said, shaking her head. 
 "But I do wish you liked the pink, Millie dear. It will be so 
 nice at night with the lights so gay." 
 
 "We'll have it then," said Millie. "After all, it's your house, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 She went downstairs, and then to her amazement found Bunny 
 waiting for her near her desk. 
 
 "Why " Her face flushed with pleasure. How could she 
 
 help loving him when every inch of him called to her, and 
 touched her with pity and pride and longing and wonder ? 
 
 "I've come," he began rather sulkily, not looking at her but 
 out of the window, "to apologize for last night. I shouldn't 
 have said what I did. I'm sorry." 
 
 How strange that now, when only a moment ago she had 
 loved him so that most likely she would have died for him, the 
 sound of his sulky voice should harden her with a curious, 
 almost impersonal hostility. 
 
 "No need to apologize," she said lightly, sitting down at her 
 desk and turning over the letters. "You weren't very nice last 
 night, but last night's last night and this morning's this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 "Oh well," he said angrily, still not looking at her, "for the 
 matter of that you weren't especially charming yourself; but 
 of course it's always my fault." 
 
 "Need we have it all over again ?" she said, her heart beating, 
 her head hot, as though some one were trying to enclose it in 
 a bag. "If I was nasty I'm sorry, and you say you're sorry 
 so that's over." 
 
 He turned towards her angrily. "Of course if that's all you 
 have to say " he began. 
 
 The door opened and Ellen came in.
 
 HERE COURAGE IS NEEDED 263 
 
 Millie had then the curious sensation of having passed 
 through, not very long ago, the scene that was now coming. 
 She saw Ellen's thin hody, the faded, grey, old-fashioned dress, 
 the sharply cut, pale face with the indignant, protesting eyes; 
 she saw Bunny's sudden turn towards the door, his face harden- 
 ing as he realized his old and unrelenting enemy, then the quick 
 half-turn that he made towards Millie as though he needed her 
 protection. That touched her, but again strangely she was for 
 a moment outside this, a spectator of the sun-drenched room, of 
 the silly pictures on the wall, of the desk with the litter of papers 
 that even now she was still mechanically handling. Outside it 
 and beyond it, so that she was able to say to herself, "And now 
 Ellen will move to that far window, she'll brush that chair with 
 her skirt, and now she'll say: 'Good-morning, Mr. Baxter. I 
 won't apologize for interrupting because I've wanted this 
 chance '" 
 
 "Good-morning, Mr. Baxter," Ellen said, turning from the 
 window towards them both with the funny jerky movement that 
 was so especially hers. "I won't apologize for interrupting 
 because I've wanted this chance of speaking to you both to- 
 gether for some time." 
 
 Then, at the actual sound of her voice, Millie was pushed in, 
 right in and with that immersion there was a sudden desperate 
 desire to keep Ellen off, not to hear on any account what she had 
 to say, to postpone it, to answer Bunny's appeal, to do anything 
 rather than to allow things to go as she saw in Ellen's eyes that 
 woman intended them to go. 
 
 "Leave us alone for a minute, Ellen/' she said. "Bunny and 
 I are in the middle of a scrap." 
 
 Standing up by the desk she realized the power that her looks 
 had upon Ellen her miserable, wretched looks that mattered 
 nothing to her, less than nothing to her at all. She did not 
 realize though that the tears that she had been shedding in 
 Victoria's room had given her eyes a new lustre, that her cheeks 
 were touched to colour with her quarrel with Bunny, and that 
 she stood there holding herself like a young queen young 
 indeed both in her courage and her fear, in her loyalty and her 
 scorn.
 
 264 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 Ellen stared at her as though she were seeing her for the first 
 time. 
 
 "Oh well " she said, suddenly dropping her eyes and turn- 
 ing as though she would go. Then she stopped. "No, why 
 should I? After all, it's for your good that you should know 
 . . . this can't go on. I care for you enough to see that it 
 shan't." 
 
 Millie came forward into the centre of the room that was warm 
 with the sun- and glowing with light. "Look here, Ellen. We 
 don't want a scene. I'm sick of scenes. I seem to have nothing 
 but scenes now, with Bunny and you and Victoria and every one. 
 If you've really got something to say, say it quickly and lef s 
 have it over." 
 
 Bunny's contribution was to move towards the door. "I'll 
 leave you to it," he said. "Lord, but I'm sick of women. One 
 thing after another. You'd think a man had nothing better 
 to do " 
 
 "No, you don't," said Ellen quickly. "You'll find it will pay 
 you best to stay and listen. It isn't about nothing this time. 
 You've got to take it. You're caught out at last, Mr. Baxter. 
 I don't want to be unfair to you. If you'll promise me on your 
 word of honour to tell Millie everything from first to last about 
 Miss Amery, I'll leave you. If afterwards I find you haven't, 
 111 supply the missing details. Millie's got to know the truth 
 this time whatever she thinks either of me or of you." 
 
 Bunny stopped. His face stiffened. He turned back. 
 
 "You dirty spy!" he said. "So you've been down to my 
 village, have you ?" 
 
 "I have," said Ellen. "I've seen your mother and several 
 other people. Tell Millie the truth and my part of this dirty 
 affair is over." 
 
 Millie spoke: "You've seen his mother, Ellen? What right 
 had you to interfere? What business was it of yours?" 
 
 "Oh, you can abuse me," Ellen answered defiantly. "I'm not 
 here to defend myself. Anyway you can't think worse of me 
 than you seem to. I waited and waited. I thought some one 
 else would do something. I knew that Victoria had heard some 
 of the stories and thought that she would take some steps. I 
 thought that you would yourself, Millie. I fancied that you'd
 
 HERE COURAGE IS NEEDED 265 
 
 be too proud to go on month after month in the way you have 
 done, putting up with his lies and shif tings and everything else. 
 At last I could stand it no longer. If no one else would save 
 you I would. I went down to his village in Wiltshire and got 
 the whole story. I told his mother what he was doing. She's 
 coming up to London herself to see you next week." 
 
 Millie's eyes were on Bunny and only on him in the whole 
 world. She and he were enclosed in a little room, a blurring, 
 sun-drenched room that grew with every moment smaller and 
 closer. 
 
 "What is this, Bunny?" she said, "that she means? Now at 
 last we'll have the whole story, if you don't mind. What id 
 it that you've been keeping from me all these months?" 
 
 He laughed uneasily. "You're not going to pay any attention 
 to a nasty, jealous woman like that, Millie," he said. "We all 
 know what she is and why she's jealous. I knew she'd been 
 raking around for ever so long but I didn't think that even her 
 spite would go so far " 
 
 '"But what is it, Bunny?" Millie quietly repeated. 
 
 "Why, it's nothing. She's gone to my home and discovered 
 that I was engaged last year to a girl there, a Miss Amery. We 
 broke it off last Christmas, but my mother still wants me to 
 marry her. That's why if s been so difficult all these weeks. 
 But " 
 
 "So you're not going to tell her the truth," interrupted Ellen. 
 "I thought you wouldn't. I just thought you hadn't the pluck. 
 Well, I will do it for you." 
 
 "It's lies all lies, Millie. Whatever she tells you," Bunny 
 broke in. "Send her away, Millie. What has she to do with 
 us? You can ask me anything you like but I'm not going to 
 be cross-questioned with her in the room." 
 
 Millie looked at him steadily, then turned to Ellen. 
 
 "What is it, Ellen, you've got to say ? Bunny is right, you've 
 been spying. That's contemptible. Nothing can justify it. 
 But I'd like to hear what you ihink you've discovered, and it's 
 better to say it before Mr. Baxter." 
 
 Ellen looked at Millie steadily. "I'm thinking only of yon, 
 Millie. Not of myself at all. You can hate me ever afterwards
 
 266 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 if you like, but one day, all the same, you'll be grateful and 
 you'll understand, too, how hard it has been for me to do it." 
 
 "Well," repeated Millie, scorn filling every word, "what is it 
 that you think you've discovered?" 
 
 "Simply this," said Ellen, "that last autumn a girl in Mr. 
 Baxter's village, the daughter of the village schoolmaster Kate 
 Amery is her name was engaged secretly to Mr. Baxter. She is 
 to have a baby in two months' time from now, as all the village 
 knows. All the village also knows who is its father. Mr. 
 Baxter has promised his mother to marry the girl. 
 
 "His mother insists on this, and until I told her she had no 
 idea that he was involved with any one else." 
 
 "A nice kind of story," Bunny broke in furiously. "Just 
 what any old maid would pick up if she went round with her 
 nose in the village mud. It's true, Millie, that I was engaged 
 to this girl last year, and then Christmas-time we saw that we 
 were quite unsuited to one another and we broke it off." 
 
 "Is it true," asked Millie quietly, "that your mother says that 
 you're to marry her?" 
 
 "My mother's old-fashioned. She thinks that I'm pledged in 
 some way. I'm not pledged at all." 
 
 "Is it true that the village thinks that you're the father of 
 this poor girl's child?" 
 
 "I don't know what the village thinks. They all hate me 
 there, anyway. They'd say anything to hurt me. Probably this 
 woman's been bribing them." 
 
 "Oh, poor girl! How old is she?" 
 
 "I don't know. Nineteen. Twenty." 
 
 "Oh, poor, poor girl ! . . . Did you promise your mother that 
 you would marry her ?" 
 
 "I had to say something. I haven't a penny. My mother 
 would cut me off absolutely if I didn't promise." 
 
 "And you've known all this the whole summer?" 
 
 "Of course I've known it." 
 
 "And not said a word to me ?" 
 
 "I've tried to tell you. It's been so difficult. You've got 
 such funny ideas about some things. I wasn't going to lose 
 you." 
 
 Something he saw in Millie's face startled him. He came
 
 HERE COURAGE IS NEEDED 267 
 
 nearer to her. They had both completely forgotten Ellen. She 
 gave Millie one look, then quietly left the room. 
 
 "But you must understand, Millie/' he began, a new note of 
 almost desperate urgency in his voice. "I've been trying to tell 
 you all the summer. I don't love this girl and she doesn't love 
 me. It would be perfectly criminal to force us to marry. She 
 doesn't want to marry me. I swear she doesn't. I don't know 
 whose child this is " 
 
 "Could it be yours?" 
 
 "There's another fellow " 
 
 "Could it be yours?" 
 
 "Yes, if you want to know, it could. But she hates me now. 
 She says she won't marry me she does really. And this was 
 all before I knew you. If it had happened after I knew you it 
 would be different. But you're the only woman I've ever loved, 
 you are truly. I'm not much of a fellow in many ways, I know, 
 but you can make anything of me. And if you turn me down 
 I'll go utterly to pieces. There's never been any one since I first 
 saw you." 
 
 She interrupted him, looking past him at the shining window. 
 
 "And that's why I never met your mother? That poor girl 
 . . . that poor girl . . . ." 
 
 "But you're not going to throw me over ?" 
 
 "Throw you over?" She looked at him, wide-eyed. "But 
 you don't belong to me and I don't belong to you. We've 
 nothing to do with one another any more. We don't touch any- 
 where." 
 
 He tried to take her hand. She moved back. 
 
 "It's no good, Bunny. It's over. It's all over." 
 
 ",No don't don't let me go like this. Don't " Then 
 
 he looked at her face. 
 
 "All right, then," he said. "You'll be sorry for this." 
 
 And he went.
 
 CHAPTEE IX 
 
 QUICK GROWTH 
 
 T TE stayed beside the desk for a long time, turning the 
 JtJ. papers over and over, reading, as she long afterwards re- 
 membered, the beginning of one letter many times: "Dear 
 Victoria If you take the 3.45 from Waterloo that will get you 
 to us in nice time for tea. The motor shall meet you at the 
 station/' 
 
 "The motor shall meet you at the station. . . . The motor 
 shall meet you at the station. . . ." 
 
 Well, and why shouldn't it? How easy for motors to meet 
 trains that is, if you have a motor. But motors are expensive 
 these days, and then there is the petrol and the chauffeur must 
 cost something. . . . But that's all right if you can drive your- 
 self drive yourself. . . . She pulled herself up. Where was 
 she? Oh, in Victoria's sitting-room How hot the room was! 
 And the beginning of October. How hot and how empty ! Then 
 as though something cut her just beneath the heart, she started. 
 She put her hand to her forehead. Her head was aching horribly. 
 She would go home. She knew that Victoria would not mind. 
 
 Her only dominant impulse then was to be out of that house, 
 that house that reminded her with every step she took of some- 
 thing that she must forget but what she must forget she did 
 not know. 
 
 In the hall she found her hat and coat. Beppo was there. 
 
 "Beppo," she said, "tell Miss Victoria that I have a headache 
 and have gone home. She'll understand." 
 
 "Yes, miss," he said, grinning at her in that especially confi- 
 dential way that he had with those whom he considered his 
 friends. 
 
 In the street she took a taxi, something very foreign to her 
 economic habits. But she wanted to hide herself from every- 
 
 268
 
 QUICK GEOWTH 269 
 
 body. No one must see her and stop her and ask her questions 
 that she could not answer. And she must get home quickly so 
 that she might go into her own room and shut her door and be 
 safe. 
 
 In the sitting-room she found Mary Cass sitting at the table 
 with a pile of books in front of her, nibbling a pencil. 
 
 "Hullo !" cried Mary. "You back already ?" 
 
 Then she jumped up, the book falling from her hand to the 
 floor. 
 
 "Darling, what's the matter? . . . What's happened?" 
 
 "Why, do I look funny?" said Millie smiling. "There's 
 nothing the matter. I've got an awful headache that's all. 
 I'm going to lie down." 
 
 But Mary had her arms around her. "Millie, what is it? 
 You look awful. Are you feeling ill?" 
 
 "No, only my headache." Millie gently disengaged herself 
 from Mary's embrace. "I'm going into my room to lie down." 
 
 "Shall I get something for you ? Let me " 
 
 "Please leave me alone, Mary dear. I want to be left alone. 
 That's all I want." 
 
 She went into her bedroom, drew down the blinds, lay down 
 on her bed, closing her eyes. How weak and silly she was to 
 come home just for a headache, to give up her morning's work 
 without an effort because she felt a little ill ! Think of all the 
 girls in the shops and the typists and the girl secretaries and 
 the omnibus girls and all the others, they can't go home just be- 
 cause they have a headache just because . . . 
 
 Mary Cass had come in and very quietly had laid on her fore- 
 head a wet handkerchief with eau-de-cologne. Ah! That was 
 better ! That was cool. She faded away down into space where 
 there was trouble and disorder and pain, trouble in which she 
 had some share but was too lazy to inquire what. 
 
 Then she awoke sharply with a jerk, as though some one had 
 pushed her up out of darkness into light. The Marylebone 
 church clock was striking. First the quarters. Then four 
 o'clock very slowly. . . . She was wide awake now and realized 
 everything. It was the middle of the afternoon and she had 
 been asleep for hours. Her head was still aching very badly but 
 it did not keep her back now as it had done.
 
 270 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 She knew now what had happened. She had seen the last of 
 Bunny, the very, very last. She would never see him again, nor 
 hear his voice again, nor feel his kiss on her cheek. 
 
 And at first there was the strangest relief. The matter was 
 settled then, and that confusing question that had been disturb- 
 ing her for so many months. There would be no more doubts 
 about Bunny, whether he were truthful or no, why he did not 
 take her to his mother, whether he would write every day, and 
 why a letter was suddenly cold when yesterday's letter had been 
 so loving, as to why they had so many quarrels. . . . No, no 
 more quarrels, no more of that dreadful pain in the heart and 
 wondering whether he would telephone or whether her pride 
 would break first and she would speak to him. Relief, relief, 
 
 relief Relief connected in some way with the little dancing 
 
 circle of afternoon sunlight on the white ceiling, connected with 
 the things on her dressing-table, the purple pin-cushion, the 
 silver-backed brushes that Katherine had given her, the slanting 
 sheet of looking-glass that reflected the end of her bed and the 
 chair and the piece of blue carpet. Relief. . . . She turned 
 over, resting her head on her hand, looking at the pearl-grey 
 wall-paper. Relief! . . . and she would never see him again, 
 never hear his voice again! Some one in the room with her 
 uttered a sharp, bitter cry. Who was it? She was alone. 
 Then the knife plunged deep into her heart, plunged and 
 plunged again, turning over and over. The pain was so terrible 
 that she put her hand over her eyes lest she should see this other 
 woman who was there with her suffering so badly. No, but it 
 was herself. It was she who would never see Bunny again, 
 never hear his voice. 
 
 She sat up, her hands clenched, summoning control and self- 
 command with all the strength that was in her soul. She 
 must not cry, she must not speak. She must stare her enemy 
 in the face, beat him down. Well, then. She and Bunny were 
 parted. He did not belong to her. He belonged to that poor 
 girl of whose baby he was the father. 
 
 She fought then, for twenty minutes, the hardest battle of her 
 life the struggle to face the facts. The facts were, quite 
 simply, that she could never be with Bunny any more, and worse
 
 QUICK GROWTH 271 
 
 than that, that he did not belong to her any more hut to another 
 woman. 
 
 She had not arrived yet at any criticism of him perhaps that 
 would never be. When a woman loves a man he is a child to 
 her, so simple, so young, so ignorant, that his faults, his crimes, 
 his deceits are swallowed in his babyhood. Bunny had behaved 
 abominably as ill as any man could behave; she did not yet see 
 his behaviour, but when it came to her she would say that she 
 should have been there to care for him and then it would never 
 have been. She was to remember later, and with a desperate, 
 wounding irony, how years before, when she had been the merest 
 child and Katherine had been engaged to Philip, Henry had 
 discovered that Philip had once in Eussia had a mistress who 
 had borne him a child. 
 
 Millie, when she had heard this, had poured indignant scorn 
 upon the suggestion that Katherine should leave her lover be- 
 cause of this earlier affair. Had it not all had its history before 
 Katherine had known Philip? How ironic a parallel here! 
 Did not Millie's indignant, brave, fearless youth rise up here to 
 challenge her? No, that other woman had surrendered Philip 
 
 long, long before. This woman . . . poor child Only 
 
 nineteen and the village mocking her, waiting for her child with 
 Bcorn and coarse gossip and taunting sneers ! 
 
 She got up, bathed her face, her eyes dry and hot, her cheeks 
 flaming, brushed her hair and went into the sitting-room. 
 
 No one was there, only the evening sun like a kindly spirit 
 moving from place to place, touching all with gentle, tender 
 fingers. Strange that she could have slept for so long! She 
 would never sleep again never. Always would she watch, un- 
 touched, unmoved, that strange, coloured, leaping world moving 
 round and round before her, moving for others, for their de- 
 light, their pain, but only for her scorn. 
 
 Mary Cass came in with her serious face and preoccupied air. 
 
 "Hullo Mill! Head better?" 
 
 "Yes, thanks." 
 
 "That's good. Had a sleep ? f 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Splendid. . . . Lord, Fve got plenty of work here. I don't 
 know what they think we're made of. Talk about stuffing geese
 
 272 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 to get foie-gras! People say that's wicked. Nothing to what 
 they do to us. Had any tea ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Want any?" 
 
 "No thanks." 
 
 "Do your head good. But I daresay you're right. I'm going 
 to have some though." 
 
 She moved about busying herself in her calm efficient way, 
 lighting the spirit lamp, getting out the cups, cutting the 
 bread. 
 
 "Sure you won't have some?" 
 
 "No thanks." 
 
 Tactful Mary was none of that awful commiseration, no 
 questions. 
 
 A good pal, but how far away, what infinite distance ! 
 
 Millie took the book that was nearest to her, opened it and 
 read page after page without seeing the words. 
 
 Then a sentence caught her. 
 
 "Nor is it altogether the remembrance of her cathedral 
 stopping earthquakes; nor the stampedoes of her frantic seas; 
 nor the tearlessness of arid skies that never rain. . . ." 
 
 "The tearlessness of arid skies that nev'er rain?' How 
 strange a phrase ! What was this queer book ? She read on. 
 "Thus when the muffled rollings of a milky sea; the bleak 
 rustlings of the festooned frosts of mountains; the desolate shift- 
 ings of the windrowed snows of prairies; all these, to Ishmael, 
 are as the shaking of that buffah robe to the frightened colt!" 
 
 The murmuring of the wonderful prose consoled her, lulled 
 her. She read on and on. What a strange book! What was 
 it about? She could not tell. It did not matter. About the 
 Sea. . . . 
 
 "Whafs that you're reading, Mill?" 
 
 She looked back to the cover. 
 
 "Moby-Dick." 
 
 "What a name ! I wonder how it got here." 
 
 "Perhaps Henry left it." 
 
 "I daresay. He's always reading something queer." 
 
 .The comfortable little clock struck seven. 
 
 "You'd better eat something, you know."
 
 QUICK GKOWTH 273 
 
 "No thank you, Mary." 
 
 "Look here, Mill you won't tell me what the trouble is?" 
 
 "Not now. . . . Later on." 
 
 "All right. Sorry, old dear. But every trouble passes." 
 
 "Yes, I know." 
 
 She read on for an hour. The little clock struck eight. 
 She put the book down. 
 
 "I'll go to bed now I think." 
 
 "Right oh ! Nothing I can get you ?" 
 
 "No. I'm all right." 
 
 "Shall I come and sleep with you?" 
 
 "Oh, no/" 
 
 She crossed and kissed her friend, then quietly went to her 
 room. She undressed, switched off the light, and lay on her 
 back staring. A terrible time was coming, the worst time of all. 
 She knew what it would be Remembering Things. 'Remem- 
 bering everything, every tiny, tiny little thing. Oh, if that 
 would only leave her alone for to-night, until to-morrow when 
 she would endure it more easily. But now. They were coming, 
 creeping towards her across the floor, in at the window, in at 
 the door, from under the bed. 
 
 "I don't want to remember ! I don't want to remember !" she 
 cried. 
 
 Then they came, in a long endless procession, crowding 
 eagerly with mocking laughter one upon another! That first 
 day of all when she had quarrelled with Victoria and she had 
 come downstairs to find him waiting for her, when they had! 
 sat upon her boxes, his arm round her. When they had walked 
 across the Park and he had given her tea. After their first 
 quarrel which had been about nothing at all, and he had sent, 
 her flowers, when he had caught her eye across the luncheon- 
 table at Victoria's and they had laughed at their own joke, their 
 secret joke, and Clarice had seen them and been so angry. . . . 
 Yes, and moments caught under flashing sunlight, gathering 
 dusk moments at Cladgate, dancing in the hotel with the rain 
 crackling on the glass above them, sudden movements of 
 generosity and kindliness when his face had been serious, grave, 
 involved consciously in some holy quest . . . agonizing momenta 
 of waiting for him, feeling sure that he would not come, then.
 
 274 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 suddenly seeing him swing along, his eyes searching for her, 
 lighting at the sight of her. . . . His hand seeking hers, finding 
 it, hers soft against the cool strength of his ... jokes, jokes, 
 known only to themselves, nicknames that they gave, funny 
 points of view they had, "men like trees walking," presents, a 
 little jade box that he had given her, the silver frame for his 
 photograph, a tennis racket. . . . 
 
 Oh, no, no, shut it out ! I can't bear it any longer ! If you 
 come to me still I must go to him, find him, tell him I love 
 him whatever it is that he has done, and that I will stay with 
 him, be with him, hear his voice. . . . 
 
 She sat up, her hands to her head, the frenzy of another 
 woman beating now in her brain. She did not know the hour 
 nor the place; the world on every side of her was utterly still, 
 you might hear the minutes like drops of water falling into the 
 pool of silence. She saw it a vast inverted bowl gleaming white 
 against the deep blue of the sky shredded with stars. On the 
 edge of this bowl she was walking perilously, as on a rope over 
 space. 
 
 She had slept but now she was awake, clear-headed, seeing 
 everything distinctly, and what she saw was that she must go to 
 Bunny, must find him, must tell him that she would never leave 
 him again. 
 
 She was now so clear about it because the peril she saw in 
 front of her was her loneliness. To go on, living for ever and 
 ever in a completely empty world, walking round and round on 
 that ridge above that terrible shining silence could that be ex- 
 pected of any one? No. Seriously she spoke aloud, shaking 
 her head : "I can't be supposed to endure that." 
 
 She got out of bed and dressed very carefully, very cautiously, 
 realizing quite clearly that she must not wake Mary Cass, who 
 would certainly stop her from going to find Bunny. Time did 
 not occur to her, only she saw that the moonlight was shining 
 into her room throwing milky splashes upon the floor, and these 
 she avoided as though they would contaminate her, walking 
 carefully around them as she dressed. She went softly into 
 the sitting-room, softly down the stairs, softly into the street. 
 She was wearing her little crimson hat because that was one 
 that he liked.
 
 QUICK GROWTH 275 
 
 She stayed for a moment in the street marvelling at its cool- 
 ness and silence. The night breeze touched her cheek caressing 
 her. Yes, the sky blazed with stars blazed ! And the houses 
 were ebony black, like rocks over still deep water. 
 
 Everything around her seemed to give, at regular intervals, 
 little shudders of ecstasy a quiver in which she also shared. 
 She walked down the street with rapid steps, her face set with 
 serious determination. The sooner to reach Bunny! No one 
 impeded her. It seemed to her that as she advanced the rocks 
 grew closer about her, hanging more thickly overhead and 
 shutting out the stars. 
 
 She was nearing the Park. There were trees, festoons above 
 the water making dark patterns and yet darker shadows. 
 
 Under the trees she met a woman. She stopped and the 
 woman stopped. 
 
 "You're out late," the woman said ; then as Millie said nothing 
 but only stared at her she went on, laughing affectedly "good 
 evening or morning I should say. It's nearly four." 
 
 She stared at Millie with curiosity. "Which way you going? 
 I'm for home. Great Portland Street. Been back once to- 
 night already. But I thought I'd make a bit more. Had no 
 luck the second time." 
 
 "Am I anywhere near Turner's Hotel ?" Millie asked politely. 
 
 "Turner's Hotel, dear? And where might that be?" 
 
 "Off Jermyn Street." 
 
 "Jermyn Street ! You walk down Park Lane and then down 
 Piccadilly. Are you new to London ?" 
 
 "Oh, no, I'm not new," said Millie very seriously. "I 
 couldn't sleep so I came out for a walk." 
 
 The woman looked at her more closely. She was a very thin, 
 woman with a short tightly-clinging skirt and a face heavily 
 powdered. 
 
 "Here, we'd better be moving a bit, dear, or the bobby will be 
 on us. You do look tired. I don't think I've seen you about 
 before." 
 
 "Yes, I am tired." 
 
 "Well, so's myself if you want to know. But I've been work- 
 ing a bit too hard lately. Want to save enough for a fortnight's
 
 276 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 holiday. Glebeshire. That's where I come from. Of course 
 I wouldn't go back to my own place not likely. But I'd like 
 to see the fields and hedges again. Bit different from the rotten 
 country round London." 
 
 Millie suddenly stopped. 
 
 "It's very late to go now, isn't it ?" she asked. "In the middle 
 of the night. He'll think it strange, won't he?" 
 
 "I should guess he would," said the woman, tittering. 
 "Why, you're only a child. You've no right to he wandering 
 about like this. You don't know what you're doing." 
 
 "It was just because I couldn't sleep," said Millie very 
 gravely. "But I see I've done wrong. I can't disturb him 
 this hour of the night." 
 
 She stumbled a little, her knees suddenly trembling. The 
 woman put her arm around her. "Steady!" she said. "Here, 
 you're ill. You'd better be getting home. Where do you live ?" 
 
 "One Hundred and Sixteen Baker Street/" 
 
 "I'll take you. . . . There's a taxi. Why, you're nothing but 
 a kid!" 
 
 In the taxi Millie leant her head on the woman's shoulder. 
 
 "I'm very tired but I can't sleep," she said. 
 
 "You're in some trouble I guess," the woman said. 
 
 "Yes, I am. Terrible trouble," said Millie. 
 
 "Some man I suppose. It's always the men." 
 
 "What's your name?" asked Millie. "You're very kind." 
 
 "Hose Bennett," said the woman. "But don't you remember 
 it. I'm much better forgotten by a child like you. Why, I'm 
 old enough to be your mother." 
 
 The taxi stopped. Millie paid for it. 
 
 "Give me a kiss, will you?" asked the woman. 
 
 "Why, of course I will," said Millie. She kissed her on the 
 lips. 
 
 "Don't you go out alone at night like that," said the woman, 
 "It isn't safe." 
 
 "No, I won't," said Millie. 
 
 She let herself in. The sitting-room was just as it had been, 
 rery quiet, so terribly quiet. 
 
 She had no thought but that she must not be alone. She
 
 QUICK GROWTH 277 
 
 opened Mary's door. She went in. Mary's soft breathing came 
 to her like the voice of the room. 
 
 She took a chair and sat down and stared at the bed. ... 
 The Marylebone Church struck half-past seven and woke Mary. 
 She looked up, staring, then in the dim light saw Millie sitting 
 there. 
 
 "Why, Millie! Yon! All dressed. . . . Good heavens, 
 what's the matter!" 
 
 She sprang out of bed. 
 
 "Why, you haven't even taken off your hat! Millie darling, 
 what is it?" 
 
 "I couldn't sleep so I went out for a walk and then I didn't 
 want to be alone so I came in here." 
 
 Mary gave her one look, then hurriedly throwing on her 
 dressing-gown went into the next room, saying as she went : 
 
 "Stay there, Mill dear. . . . I'll be back in a moment." 
 
 She carefully closed the door behind her then went to the 
 telephone. 
 
 "6345 Gterrard, please. . . . Yes, is that ? Yes, I want to 
 speak to Mr. Trenchard, please Oh, I know he's asleep. Of 
 course, but this is very serious. Illness. Yes. He must come 
 at once. . . . Oh, is that you, Henry? Sorry to make you 
 come down at this unearthly hour. Yes it's Mary Cass. You 
 must come over here at once. It's Millie. She's very ill. No, 
 I don't know what the matter is, but you must come. Yes, at 
 once." 
 
 She went back to Millie. She persuaded her to come into 
 the sitting-room, to take off her hat. After that, she sat there 
 on the little sofa without moving, staring in front of her. 
 
 Half an hour later Henry came in, rough, tumbled, dis- 
 hevelled. At the sight of that familiar face, that untidy hair, 
 those eager devoted eyes, a tremor ran through Millie's body. 
 
 He rushed across to her, flung his arms around her. 
 
 "Millie darling . . . darling. . . . What is it ? Mill dearest, 
 whafs the matter?" 
 
 She clung to him; she shuddered from head to foot; then she 
 cried: "Oh, Henry, don't leave me Don't leave me. J^ever 
 again. Oh, Henry, I'm so unhappy !"
 
 278 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 And at that the tears suddenly came, breaking out, releasing 
 at once the agony and the pain and the fear, pouring them out 
 against her brother's face, clinging to him, holding him, never 
 never to let him go again. And he, seeing his proud, confident, 
 beloved Millie in desperate need of him held her close, mur- 
 muring old words of their childhood to her, stroking her hair, 
 her face, her hands, looking at her with eyes of the deepest, 
 tenderest love.
 
 BOOK IV 
 KNIGHT-ERRANT
 
 CHAPTEK I 
 
 MRS. TENSSEN'S MIND is MADE UP AT LAST 
 
 AT the very moment in the afternoon when Millie was hiding 
 herself from a horrible world in a taxi Henry and Lady 
 Bell-Hall were entering the Hill Street house. 
 
 The house was still and unresponsive; even Lady Bell-Hall, 
 who was not sensitive to atmosphere, gave a little shiver and 
 hurried upstairs. Henry hung up his coat and hat in the little 
 room to the right of the hall and went to the library. 
 
 Herbert Spencer was there, seated at Sir Charles' table sur- 
 rounded with little packets of letters all tied neatly with bright 
 new red tape. He was making entries in a large book. 
 
 "Ah, Trenchard," he said, and went on with his entries. 
 
 Henry felt depressed. Although the day was sunny and 
 warm the library was cold. Spencer seemed most damnably in 
 possession, his thin nose and long thin fingers pervading every- 
 thing. Henry went to his own table, took his notes out of his 
 despatch-box and sat down. He had a sudden desire to have 
 a violent argument with Spencer about anything. 
 
 "I say, Spencer you might at least ask how Sir Charles is." 
 
 Spencer carefully finished the note that he was making. 
 
 "How is he ?" he asked. 
 
 Henry jumped up and walked over to the other table. 
 
 'TTou're a cold-blooded fish !" he broke out indignantly. "Yes 
 you are ! You've no feelngs at all. If he dies the only sensa- 
 tion you'll have I suppose is whether you'll still keep this job 
 or no." 
 
 Spencer said nothing but continued to write. 
 
 "Thank heaven I am inaccurate," Henry went on. "Ifs 
 awful being as accurate as you are. It dries up all your natural 
 feelings. There never was a warm-blooded man yet who was 
 really accurate. And it's the same with languages. Any one 
 who's a really good linguist is inhuman." 
 
 281
 
 282 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 "Indeed !" said Spencer, sniffing. 
 
 "Yes. Indeed. . . ." retorted Henry indignantly. "I think 
 ifs disgusting. Here's Buncombe, one of the finest men who's 
 ever lived. . . ." 
 
 "I can't help feeling/' said Spencer slowly, "that one is best 
 serving Sir Charles Buncombe's interests by carrying out the 
 work that he has left in our charge. I may be wrong, of course." 
 
 He then performed one of his most regular and most irritating 
 habits namely, he wiped a drop of moisture from his nose with 
 the back of his hand. 
 
 "If you've made those notes on Cadell and Constable, Tren- 
 chard," he added, "during these last days in the country, I shall 
 be very glad to have them." 
 
 "Well, I haven't," said Henry. "So you can put that in 
 your pipe and smoke it. I haven't been able to concentrate on. 
 anything during the last two days, and I shan't be able to either 
 until the operation's over." 
 
 Spencer said nothing. He continued to work, then, as though 
 suddenly remembering something, he opened a drawer and pro- 
 duced from it two sheets of foolscap paper thickly covered with 
 writing. 
 
 "I believe this is your handwriting, Trenchard," he said 
 gravely. "I found them in the waste-paper basket, where they 
 had doubtless gone by mistake." 
 
 Trenchard took them and then blushed violently. The top 
 of the first page was headed : 
 
 "Chapter XV. The Mystery of the Blue Closet." 
 
 "Thanks," he said shortly, and took them to his own table. 
 
 There was a silence for a long time while Henry, lost in a 
 miserable vague dream, gazed with unperceptive eyes at the por- 
 trait of the stout, handsome Archibald Constable. Then came 
 the luncheon-bell, and after that quite a horrible meal alone 
 with Lady Bell-Hall, who only said two things from first to last. 
 One: "The operation's to be on Tuesday morning, I under- 
 stand." The other: "I see coal's gone up again." 
 
 After luncheon he felt that he could endure the terrible house 
 no longer. He must get out into the air. He must try and see 
 Christina. 
 
 Spencer returned from his luncheon just as Harry was leaving.
 
 MES. TENSSE1SPS MIKD IS MADE UP 283 
 
 "Are you going?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, I am," said Henry. "I can't stand this house to-day." 
 
 "What about Cadell and Constable ?" asked Spencer, sniffing. 
 
 "Damn Cadell and Constable," said Henry, rushing out. 
 
 In the street he thought suddenly of Millie. He stopped in 
 Berkeley Square thinking of her. Why ? He had the strangest 
 impulse to go off to Cromwell Eoad and see her. But Christina 
 drew him. 
 
 Nevertheless Millie . . . but he shook his head and hurried off 
 towards Peter Street. 
 
 I have called this a Eomantic Story because it is so largely 
 Henry's Story and Henry was a Eomantic Young Man. He felt 
 that it was his solemn duty to be modern, cynical and realistic, 
 but his romantic spirit was so strong, so courageous, so scornful 
 of the cynical parts of him that it has dominated and directed 
 him to this very day, and will so continue to dominate, I sup- 
 pose, until the hour of his death. 
 
 To many a modern young man Mrs. Tenssen would have been 
 merely a nasty, dangerous, black-mailing woman, and Christina 
 her pretty but possibly not-so-innocent-as-she-appears daughter. 
 But there the young modern would have missed all the heart of 
 the situation and Henry, guided by his romantic spirit, went 
 directly to it. He still believed in the evil, spell-brewing, hag- 
 like witch, the dusky wood, the beautiful imprisoned Princess 
 nothing in the world seemed to him more natural and for 
 once, just for once, he was exactly right ! 
 
 The Witch on this present occasion was, even thus early in 
 the afternoon, taking a cup of tea with her friend, Mrs. Arm- 
 strong. When Henry came in they were sitting close together, 
 and their heads were turned towards the door as though they 
 had suddenly been discovered in some kind of conspiracy. Mrs. 
 Tenssen tightened her thin lips when she recognized her visitor, 
 and Henry realized that a new crisis had arrived in his ad- 
 venture and that he must be prepared for a dramatic interview. 
 
 Nevertheless, from the moment of his entry into that room 
 his depression dropped from him like the pack off Christian's 
 back. Nothing was ever lost by politeness. 
 
 "Good afternoon, Mrs. Tenssen. Is Christina in?" 
 
 He stood in the doorway smiling at the two women.
 
 284 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 Mrs. Tenssen finished her cup of tea before replying. 
 
 "No, she is not," she at length answered. "Nor is she likely 
 to be. Neither now nor later not to-day and not to-morrow." 
 
 "What's he asking?" inquired Mrs. Armstrong in her deep 
 bass voice. 
 
 "Whether Christina's in." 
 
 Both the women laughed. It seemed to them an excellent 
 joke. 
 
 "Perhaps you will be kind enough to give her a message from 
 me," Henry said, suddenly involved in the strange miasma of 
 horrid smell and hateful sound that seemed to be forever floating 
 in that room. 
 
 "Perhaps I will not," said Mrs. Tenssen, suddenly getting 
 up from her chair and facing him. "Now you've been hanging 
 around here just about enough, and it will please you to take 
 yourself off once and for all or I'll see that somebody makes you." 
 She turned round to Mrs. Armstrong. "It's perfectly disgusting 
 what I've had to put up with from him. You'll recollect that 
 first day he broke in here through the window just like any com- 
 mon thief. It's my belief it was thieving he was after then and 
 if s been thieving he's been after ever since. Damned little 
 squab. 
 
 "Always sniffing round Christina and Christina fairly loathes 
 the sight of him. Why, it was only yesterday she said to me: 
 'Well, thank God, mother, it's some weeks since we saw that 
 young fool, bothering the life out of me,' she said. Why, it 
 isn't decent." 
 
 "It is not," said Mrs. Armstrong, blowing on her tea. "I 
 should have the police in if he's any more of a nuisance." 
 
 "That's a lie," said Henry, his cheeks flaming. Stepping for- 
 ward, "And you know it is. Where is Christina? What have 
 you done with her? I'll have the police here if you don't tell 
 me." 
 
 Mrs. Tenssen thrust her head forward, producing an extraordi- 
 nary evil expression with her white powdered face, her heavy 
 black costume and her hanging podgy fingers. "Call me a liar, 
 do you? That's a nice, pretty thing to call a lady, but I sup- 
 pose it's about as much manners as you have got. He's always 
 talking about the police, my dear," turning round to Mrs. Arm-
 
 MKS. TENSSEN'S MIND IS MADE UP 285 
 
 strong. "If s a mania he's got. Although what good they're 
 going to do him I'm sure I don't know. And a pretty thing for 
 Christina to be dragged into the courts. He's mad, my dear. 
 Thaf s all there is about it." 
 
 "I'm not mad," said Henry, "as you'll find out one day. 
 You're trying to do something horrible to Christina, but I'll 
 prevent it if it kills me." 
 
 "And let me tell you," said Mrs. Tenssen, standing now, her 
 arms akimbo, "that if you set your foot inside that door again 
 or bring your ugly, dirty face inside this room I'll whip you out 
 of it. I will indeed, and you can have as many of your bloody 
 police in as you like to help you. All the police force if you 
 care to. But I'll tell you straight," here her voice rose suddenly 
 into a violent scream, "that I will bloody well scratch the skin 
 off your face if you poke it in here again . . . and now get out 
 or I'll make you." 
 
 Here I regret to say Henry's temper, never as tightly in 
 control as it should be, forsook him. 
 
 "And I tell you," he shouted back, "that if you hurt a hair 
 of Christina's head I'll have you imprisoned for life and tor- 
 tured too if I can. And I'll come here just as often as I like 
 until I'm sure of her safety. You be careful what you do. 
 . . . You'd better look out." 
 
 He banged the door behind him and was stumbling down 
 the dark stairs.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 HENRY MEETS MRS. WESTCOTT 
 
 IN the street he had to pause and steady himself for a moment 
 against a wall. He was trembling from head to foot, trem- 
 bling with an extraordinary mixture of anger, surprise, in- 
 dignation, and then anger again. Christina had warned him 
 months ago that this was coming. "When mother makes up 
 her mind/' she said. Well, mother had made up her mind. 
 And to what? 
 
 Where was Christina? Perhaps already she was being im- 
 prisoned in the country somewhere and could not get word to 
 him punished possibly until she consented to marry that hor- 
 rible old man or some one equally disgusting. 
 
 The fear that he might now be too late felt by him for the 
 first time made him cold with dread. Hitherto, from the 
 moment when he had first seen the crimson feather in the 
 Circus he had been sure that Fate was with him, that the ad- 
 venture had been arranged from the beginning by some genial, 
 warm-hearted Olympian smiling down from his rosy-tipped 
 cloud, seeing Henry Trenchard and liking him in spite of his 
 follies, and determining to make him happy. But suppose 
 after all, it should not be so? What if Christina's life and 
 happiness were ruined through his own weakness and dallying 
 and delay? He was so miserable at the thought that he started 
 back a step or two half-determining to face the horrible Mrs. 
 Tenssen again. But there was nothing at that moment to be 
 gained there. He turned down Peter Street, baffled as ever by 
 his own ridiculous inability to deal with a situation adequately. 
 What was there lacking in him, what had been lacking in him 
 from his birth? Good, practical common sense, that was what 
 he needed. Would he ever have it ? 
 
 He decided that Peter was his need. He would put his 
 
 286
 
 HENRY MEETS MRS. WESTCOTT 287 
 
 troubles to him and do what he advised. Outside the upper 
 part in Marylebone High Street he rang the little tinkly bell, 
 and then waited an eternity. Nobody stirred. The house was 
 dead. A grey, sleepy-eyed cat came and rubbed itself against 
 his leg. He rang again, and then again. 
 
 Suddenly Peter appeared. He could not see through the dim 
 obscurity of the autumn afternoon. 
 
 "Who's there?" he asked. 
 
 "It's me. I mean I. Henry." 
 
 "Henry?" 
 
 "Yes, Henry. Good heavens, Peter, it's as difficult to pass 
 your gate as Paradise's." 
 
 Peter came forward. 
 
 "Sorry, old man/' he said. "I couldn't see. Look here " 
 
 He put his hand on Henry's shoulder hesitating. "Oh, all 
 right. Come in." 
 
 "What ! don't you want me ?" said Henry, instantly, as always, 
 suspicious of an affront. "All right, I'll " 
 
 "No, you silly cuckoo. Come in." 
 
 They passed in, and at once Henry perceived that some- 
 thing was different. What was different? He could not 
 tell. . . . 
 
 He looked about him. Then in the middle of his curiosity 
 the thought of his many troubles overcame him and he began: 
 
 "Peter, old man, I'm dreadfully landed. There's something 
 that ought to be done and I don't know what it is. I never do 
 know. If s Christina of course. I've just had the most awful 
 scene with her mother; she's cursed me like a fishwife and 
 forbidden me to come near the house again. Of course I knew 
 that this was coming, but Christina warned me that when it 
 did come it would mean that her mother had finally made up 
 her mind to something and wasn't going to waste any time 
 about it. ... Well, where's Christina, and how am I to get 
 at her? I don't know what's happening. They may be tor- 
 turing her or anything. That woman's capable of. . . ." 
 
 He broke off, his eyes widening. The door from the inner 
 room opened and a woman came out. 
 
 "Henry," said Peter, "let me introduce you. This is my 
 wife."
 
 288 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 Henry's first thought was: "Now I must show no surprise 
 at this. I musn't hurt Peter's feelings." And his second: 
 "Oh dear ! Poor thing ! How terribly ill she looks !" 
 
 His consciousness of her was at once so strong that he forgot 
 himself and Peter. He had never seen any one in the least like 
 her before: this was not Peter's wife come back to him, but 
 some one who had peered up for a moment out of a world so black 
 and tragic that Henry had never even guessed at its existence. 
 Not his experiences in the War, not his mother's death, nor 
 Buncombe's tragedy, nor Christina and her horrible parent 
 were real to him as was suddenly this little woman with her 
 strange yellow hair, her large angry eyes, her shabby black 
 dress. What a face ! he would never forget it so long as life 
 lasted with its sickness and anger and disgust and haggard 
 rebellion. 
 
 Yes, there were worse things than the War, worse things 
 than assaults on the body, than maiming and sudden death. 
 His young inexperience took a shoot into space at that instant 
 when he first saw Clare Westcott. 
 
 She stared at him scornfully, then she suddenly put her hand 
 to her throat and sat down on the sofa with pain in her eyes 
 and a stare of rebellious anger as though she were saying: 
 
 "I'll escape you yet. . . . But you're damned persistent. 
 . . . Leave me, can't you?" 
 
 Peter came to her. "Clare, this is Henry Trenchard my 
 best friend." 
 
 Henry came across holding out his hand: 
 
 "How do you do ? I'm very glad to meet you ?" 
 
 She gave him her hand, it was hot and dry. 
 
 "So you're one of Peter's friends?" she said, still scornfully. 
 "You're much younger than he is." 
 
 "Yes, I am," he said. "But that doesn't prevent our being 
 splendid friends." 
 
 "Do you write too ?" she asked, but with no curiosity, wearily, 
 angrily, her eyes moving like restless candles lighting up a 
 room that was dark for her. 
 
 "I hope to," he answered, "but it's hard to get started 
 harder than ever it was." 
 
 "Peter didn't find it hard when he began. Did you, Peter ?"
 
 HENRY MEETS MRS. WESTCOTT 289 
 
 she asked, a curious note of irony in her voice. "He began right 
 away with a great flourish. Every one talking about him. . . . 
 Didn't quite keep it up though," she ended, her voice sinking 
 into a mutter. 
 
 "Never mind all that now," Peter said, trying to speak lightly. 
 
 "Why not mind it?" she broke in sharply. "That young 
 man's your friend, isn't he ? He ought to know what you were 
 like when you were young. Those happy days. . . ." She 
 laughed bitterly. "Oh ! I ruined his work, you know," she went 
 on. "Yes, I did. All my fault. Now see what he's become. 
 He's grown fat. You've grown fat, Peter, got quite a stomach. 
 You hadn't then or I wouldn't have married you. Are you 
 married?" she said, suddenly turning on Henry. 
 
 "No," he answered. 
 
 "Well, don't you be. I've tried it and I know. Marriage 
 is just this : If you're unhappy if s hell, and if you're happy it 
 makes you soft. . . ." 
 
 She seemed then suddenly to have said enough. She leant 
 back against the cushion, not regarding any more the two men, 
 brooding. . . . 
 
 There was a long silence. 
 
 Peter said at last: "Are you tired, dear? Would you like 
 to go and lie down?" 
 
 She came suddenly up from the deep water of her own 
 thoughts. 
 
 "Oh, you want to get rid of me. . . ." She got up slowly. 
 "Well, I'll go." 
 
 "No," he answered eagerly. "If you'll lie down on this sofa 
 I'll make it comfortable for you. Then Harry shall tell us 
 what he's been doing." 
 
 She stood, her hands on her hips, her body swaying ever so 
 slightly. 
 
 "Tum-te-tiddledy . . . Tum-te-tiddledy. Poor little thing 
 
 ! Was it ill? Must it be fussed over and have cushions 
 
 and be made to lie down? If you're ever ill," she said to 
 Henry, "don't you let Peter nurse you. He'll fuss the life out 
 of you. He's a regular old woman. He always was. He hasn't 
 changed a bit. Fuss, fuss fuss, fuss, fuss. Oh ! he's very kind, 
 Peter is, so thoughtful. Well, why shouldn't I stay ? I haven't
 
 290 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 seen so many new faces in the last few days that a new one 
 isn't amusing. When did you first meet Peter?" 
 
 "Oh some while ago now," said Henry. 
 
 "Have you read his books?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Do you like them?" 
 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
 She suddenly lay back on the sofa and, to Henry's surprise, 
 without any protest allowed Peter to wrap a rug round her, 
 arrange the cushions for her. She caught his shoulder with 
 her hand and pressed it. 
 
 "I used to like to do that," she said, nodding to Henry. 
 "When we were married years ago. Strong muscles he's got 
 still. Haven't you, Peter ? Oh, we'll be a model married couple 
 yet." 
 
 She looked at Henry, more gently now and with a funny 
 crooked smile. 
 
 "Do you know how long we've been married? Years and 
 years and years. I'm over forty you know. You wouldn't 
 think it, would you? . . . Say you wouldn't think it." 
 
 "Of course I wouldn't," said Henry. 
 
 "That's very nice of you. Why, he's blushing ! Look at him 
 blushing, Peter ! It's a long time since I've done any blushing. 
 Are you in love with any one?" 
 
 "Yes," said Henry. 
 
 "When are you going to be married ?" 
 
 "Never," said Henry. 
 
 "Never ! Why ! doesn't she like you ?" 
 
 "Yes, but she doesn't want to be married." 
 
 "Thaf s wise of her. It's hard on Peter my coming back like 
 this, but I'm not going to stay long. As soon as I'm better 
 I'm going away. Then he can divorce me." 
 
 "Clare dear, don't: " 
 
 "Just the same as you used to be." 
 
 "Clare dear, don't " 
 
 "Clare, dear, you mustn't. . . . Oh, men do like to have it 
 their own way. So long as you love a man you can put up 
 with it, but when you don't love him any more then if s hard 
 to put up with. How awful for you, Peter darling, if I'm
 
 HENKY MEETS MES. WESTCOTT 291 
 
 never strong enough to go away if I'm a permanent invalid 
 
 on your hands for ever Won't that be fun for you? Rather 
 
 amusing to see how you'll hate it and me. You hate me now, 
 but it's nothing to the way you'll hate me after a year or 
 two. ... Do you know Chelsea?" 
 
 "I've been there once or twice," said Henry. 
 
 "That's where we used to live in our happy married days. 
 A dear little house we had the house I ran away from. We 
 had a baby too, but that died. Peter was fond of that baby, 
 fonder than he ever was of me." 
 
 She turned on her side, beating the cushions into new shapes. 
 "Oh, well, that's all over long ago long, long ago." She for- 
 got the men again, staring in front of her. 
 
 Henry waited a little, then said a word to Peter and went
 
 CHAPTBB III 
 
 A DEATH AND A BATTL1 
 
 YES, life was now crowding in upon Henry indeed, crowd- 
 ing him in, stamping on him, treading him down. No 
 sooner had he received one impact than another was upon 
 
 him Such women as Clare, in regular daily life, in the 
 
 closest connection with his own most intimate friend! As he 
 hurried away down Marylebone High Street his great thought 
 was that he wanted to do something for her, to take that angry 
 tragedy out of her eyes, to make her happy. Peter wouldn't 
 make her happy. They would never be happy together. He 
 and Peter would never be able to deal with a case like Clare's, 
 there was something too na'ive, too childish in them. How she 
 despised both of them, as though they had been curates on their 
 visiting-day in the slums. 
 
 Oh, Henry understood that well enough. But didn't all 
 women despise all men unless they were in love with them or 
 wanted to be in love with them or had helped to produce them? 
 
 And then again, when you thought of it, didn't all men 
 despise all women with the same exceptions? Clare's scorn of 
 him tingled in his ears and made his eyes smart. And what 
 she must have been through to look like that ! 
 
 He dreamt of her that night ; he was in thick jungle and she, 
 tiger-shaped, was hunting him and some one shouted to him: 
 "Look to yourself! Climb into yourself! The only place 
 you're safe in!" 
 
 But he couldn't find the way in, the door was locked and the 
 window barred: he knew it was quiet in there and cool and 
 secure, but the hot jungle was roaming with tigers and they 
 were closer and closer. . . . 
 
 He woke to Mary Cass's urgent call on the telephone. 
 
 Then, when Millie was in his arms all else was forgotten by 
 
 292
 
 A DEATH AND A BATTLE 293 
 
 him Clare, Christina, Buncombe, work, all, all forgotten. He 
 was terrified that she should suffer like this. It was worse, far 
 worse, than that he should suffer himself. All the days of their 
 childhood, all the tiniest things were now there between them, 
 holding and binding them as nothing else could hold and bind. 
 
 Now that tears could come to her she was released and free, 
 the strange madness of that night and day was over and she 
 could tell him everything. Her pride came back to her as she 
 told him, but when he started up and wanted to go at once 
 and find Baxter and drag him through the streets of London 
 by the scruff of his neck and then hang him from the top of 
 the Tower she said : "No, Henry dear, it's no use being angry. 
 Anger isn't in this. I understand how it was. He's weak, 
 Bunny is, and he'll always be weak, and he'll always be a 
 trouble to any woman who loves him, but in his own way he 
 did love me. But I'm not clear yet. It's been my fault terribly 
 as well as his. I shouldn't have listened to Ellen, or if I did, 
 should have gone further. I would take him back, but I 
 haven't any right to him. If he'd told me everything from 
 the beginning I could have gone and seen his mother, I could 
 have found out how it really was. Now I shall never know. 
 But what I do know is that somehow he thought he'd slip 
 through, and that if there was a way, he'd leave that girl to 
 her unhappiness. If he could have found a way he wouldn't 
 have cared how unhappy she was. He would be glad for her to 
 die. I can't love him any more after that. I can't love him, 
 but I shall miss all that that love was . . . the little 
 things. . . ." 
 
 By the evening of that day she was perfectly calm. For 
 three days he scarcely left her side and he was walking with 
 a stranger. She had grown in the space of that night so much 
 older that she was now ahead of him. She had been a child; 
 she was now a woman. 
 
 She told him that Baxter had written to her and that she 
 had answered him. She went back to Victoria. She was calm, 
 quiet and, as he knew, most desperately unhappy. 
 
 He had a little talk with Mary. 
 
 "She'll never get over it," he said.
 
 294 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 "Oh yes, she will/' said Mary. "How sentimental you are, 
 Henry!" 
 
 "I'm not sentimental/' said Henry indignantly. "But I 
 know my sister better than you know her." 
 
 "You may know your sister/' Mary retorted, "but you don't 
 know anything about women. They must have something to 
 look after. If you take one thing away, they'll find something 
 else. It's their only religion, and if a the religion they want, 
 not the prophets." 
 
 She added : "Millie is far more interested in life than I am. 
 She is enchanted by it. Nothing and nobody will stop her ex- 
 citement about it. Nobody will ever keep her back from it. 
 She'll go on to her death standing up in the middle of it, 
 tossing it around 
 
 "You're like her in that, but you'll never see life as it really 
 is. She will. And she'll face it all " 
 
 "What a lot you think you know," said Henry. 
 
 "Yes, I know Millie." 
 
 "But she's terribly unhappy." 
 
 "And so she will be until she's found some one more un-. 
 happy than herself. But even unhappiness is part of the excite- 
 ment of life to her." 
 
 After a dreamless night he awoke to a sudden consciousness 
 that Millie, Clare Wescott and Christina were in his room. He 
 stirred, raising his head very gently and seemed to catch the 
 shadow of Christina's profile in the grey light of the darkened 
 window. 
 
 He sat up and, bending over to his chair where his watch lay, 
 saw that it was nine o'clock. As he sprang out of bed, King 
 entered with breakfast and an aggrieved expression. "Knocked 
 a hour ago, sir, and you hanswered," he said. 
 
 "Must have been in my sleep then," said Henry yawning, then 
 suddenly conscious of his shabby and faded pyjamas. 
 
 "Can't say, I'm sure, sir ... knocked loud enough for any- 
 thing. No letters this morning, sir." 
 
 Henry was still at the innocent and optimistic age when 
 letters are an excitement and a hope. He always felt that the 
 world was deliberately, for malicious and cruel reasons of its 
 own, forgetting him when there were no letters.
 
 A DEATH AND A BATTLE 295 
 
 He was splashing in his tin bath, his bony and angular 
 body like a study for an El Greco, when he remembered. Tues- 
 day nine o'clock. Why? . . . What! . . . Buncombe's op- 
 eration. 
 
 He hurried then as he had never hurried before, gulping down 
 his tea, choking over his egg, flinging on his clothes, throwing 
 water on his head and plastering it down, tumbling down the 
 stairs into the street. 
 
 A clock struck the half-hour as he hastened into Berkeley 
 Square. He had now no thought but for his beloved master; 
 every interest in life had faded before that. He seemed to be 
 with him there in the nursing home. He could watch it all, 
 the summoning, the procession into the operating theatre, the 
 calm, white-clad surgeon, the nurses, the anaesthetic. . . . 
 His hand was on the Hill Street door bell. He hesitated, trem- 
 bling. The street was so still in the misty autumn morning, 
 a faint scent in the air of something burning, of tar, of fading 
 leaves. A painted town, a painted sky and some figures in the 
 foreground breathlessly waiting. 
 
 The old butler opened the door. He turned back as Henry 
 entered, pointing to the dark and empty hall as though that 
 stood for all that he could say. 
 
 "Well?" said Henry. "Is there any news yet?" 
 
 "Sir Charles died under the operation. . . . Her ladyship 
 has just been rung up " 
 
 The old man moved away. 
 
 "I can't believe it," he said. "I can't believe it. ... It 
 isn't natural ! Such a few good ones in the world. It isn't 
 right." He stood as though he were lost, fingering the visiting- 
 cards on the table. He suddenly raised dull imperceptive eyes 
 to Henry ! "They can say what they like about new times com- 
 ing and all being equal. . . . There'll be masters all the same 
 and not another like Sir Charles. Good he was, good all 
 through." He faded away. 
 
 Henry went upstairs. He was so lost that he stood in the 
 library looking about him and wondering who that was at the 
 long table. It was Herbert Spencer with his packets of letters 
 and his bright red tape. 
 
 "Sir Charles is dead," Henry said.
 
 296 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 The books across that wide space echoed: "Sir Charles is 
 dead." 
 
 Herbert Spencer looked at the letters in his hand, let them 
 drop, glanced up. 
 
 "Oh, I say! I'm sorry! ... Oh dear!" he got up, staring 
 at the distant bookshelves. "After the operation?" 
 
 "During it." 
 
 "Dear, dear. And I thought in these days they were clever 
 enough for anything." He rubbed his nose with the back of 
 his hand. "Not much use going on working to-day, I suppose ?" 
 
 Henry did not hear. 
 
 "Not much use going on working to-day, I suppose?" he 
 repeated. 
 
 "No, none," said Henry. 
 
 "You'll be carrying the lettters on, I suppose?" he said. 
 
 "I don't know," Henry answered. 
 
 "Well, you see, it's like this. I've got my regular work 
 I'll have to be getting back to it if this isn't going on. I was 
 put on to this until it was finished, but if it isn't going to be 
 finished, then I'd like to know you see " 
 
 "Of course it's going to be finished," said Henry suddenly. 
 
 "Well then " said Herbert Spencer. 
 
 "And I'll tell you this," said Henry, suddenly shouting, "it's 
 going to be finished splendidly too. It's going to be better than 
 you can imagine. And you're going to work harder and I'm 
 going to work harder than we're ever done in our lives. It's 
 going to be the beat thing that's ever been. . . . It's all we 
 can do," he added, suddenly dropping his voice. 
 
 "All right," said Herbert Spencer calmly. "I'll come to- 
 morrow then. What I mean to say is that it isn't any u*e 
 my staying to-day." 
 
 "It's what he cared for more than anything," Henry cried. 
 "It's got to be beautiful." 
 
 "I'll be here to-morrow then," said Spencer, gathered his 
 papers together and went. 
 
 Henry walked round, touching the backs of the books with 
 his hand. He had known that this would be. There was no 
 surprise here. But that he would never see Sir Charles again 
 nor hear his odd, dry, ironical voice, nor see his long nose
 
 A DEATH AND A BATTLE 297 
 
 raise itself across the table that was strange. That was 
 indeed incredible. His mind wandered back to that day when 
 Duneombe had first looked at the letters and then, when Henry 
 was expecting curses, had blessed him instead. That indeed 
 had been a crisis in his life a crisis like the elopement of 
 Katherine with Philip, the outbreak of the War, the meeting 
 with Christina one of the great steps of the ladder of life. 
 He felt now, as we all must feel when some one we love has gone, 
 the burden of all the kindness undone, the courtesy unexpressed, 
 the tenderness untended. 
 
 And then he comforted himself, still wandering, pressing 
 with his hands the old leather backs and the faded gilding, 
 with the thought that at least, out there at Duncombe, Sir 
 Charles had loved him and had spoken out the things that 
 were really in his heart, the things that he would not have said 
 to any one for whom he had not cared. That last night in 
 Duncombe, the candle lighting the old room, Sir Charles had 
 kissed him as he might his own dearly loved son. And perhaps 
 even now he had not gone very far away. 
 
 Henry climbed the little staircase into the gallery and moved 
 into the dusky corners. He came to the place that he always 
 loved best, where the old English novelists were, Bage and 
 Mackenzie and absurd Clara Eeeved and Mrs. Opie and Godwin. 
 
 He took out Barham Downs and turned over the leaves, re- 
 peating to himself the old artificial sentences, the redundant 
 moralizing; the library closed about him, put its arms around 
 him, and told him once again, as it had told him once before, 
 that death is not the end and that friendship and love know 
 no physical boundaries. 
 
 Hearing a step he looked up ana saw below him Lady Bell- 
 Hall. She raised her little pig-face to the gallery and then 
 waited, a black doll, for him to come down to her. 
 
 When he was close to her she said very quietly : "My brother 
 died under the operation." 
 
 "Yes, I have heard," Henry said. 
 
 She put out her hand and timidly touched him on the arm: 
 "Every one matters now for whom he cared," she said. "And 
 he cared for you very much. Only yesterday when I saw him
 
 298 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 in the nursing-home he said how much he owed to you. He 
 wanted us to be friends. I hope that we shall be." 
 
 "Indeed, indeed we will be/' said Henry. 
 
 "What I want," she said, her upper lip trembling like a 
 child's, "is for every one to know how good he was how wonder- 
 fully good! So few people knew him they thought him stiff 
 and proud. He was shy and reserved. But his goodness! 
 There never was any one so good there never will be again. 
 You knew that. You felt it. ... I don't know ... I can't 
 believe that we shall never never again ... see ... 
 hear . . ." 
 
 She began to cry, hiding her face in her handkerchief, and 
 He suddenly, as though he were many years older than she, 
 put his arm around her. She leant her head against him and 
 he stood there awkwardly, longing to comfort her, not knowing 
 what to say. But that moment between them sealed a friend- 
 ship. 
 
 Nevertheless when he left the house he was in a curious 
 rage with life. On so many occasions he himself had been 
 guilty of spoiling life, and even in his worst moods of arro- 
 gance and ill-temper he had recognised that. 
 
 But often during the War he had seen cloven hoofs pushing 
 the world, now here, now there, and had heard the laughter 
 of the demons watching from their dusky woods. At such times 
 his imagination had faded as the sunlit glow fades from the 
 sky, leaving steel-grey and cold horizons all sharply denned 
 and of a menacing reality. 
 
 In his imagination he had seen Buncombe depart, and the 
 picture had been coloured with soft-tinted promises and gentle 
 prophecies now in the harsh fact Buncombe was gone just 
 as the letter-box stood in Hill Street and the trees were naked 
 in Berkeley Square. Life had no right to do this, and even, 
 so arrogantly certain are we all of our personalities, he felt 
 that this desire should be important enough to defeat life's 
 purpose. 
 
 Christina and her mother, Millie and her lover, Buncombe 
 and his operation, what was life about to permit these things? 
 How strongly he felt in his youth his own certainty of survival, 
 but one cock of life's finger and where was he?
 
 A DEATH AOT> A BATTLE 299 
 
 Well, he was in Piccadilly Circus, and once again, as many 
 months before, he stopped on the edge of the pavement look- 
 ing across at the winged figure, feeling all the eddy of the busy 
 morning life about him, swaying now here, now there, like 
 strands of coloured silk, above which were human faces, but 
 impersonal, abstracted, like fish in a shining sea. The people, 
 the place, then suddenly through his own anger and soreness 
 and sense of loss that moment of expectation again when he 
 rose gigantic above the turmoil, when beautiful music sounded. 
 The movement, suddenly apprehensive, ceased! like God he 
 raised his hand, the fountain swayed, the ground opened and 
 
 Standing almost at his side, unconscious of him, waiting 
 apparently for an omnibus, was Baxter. 
 
 At the sight of that hated face, seen by him before only for 
 a moment but never to be forgotten, rage took him by the 
 throat, his heart pounded, his hands shook; in another instant 
 he had Baxter by the waistcoat and was shaking him. 
 
 "You blackguard! You blackguard! You blackguard!" 
 he cried. Then he stepped back; "Come on, you swine! You 
 dirty coward! . . /' With his hand he struck him across the 
 face. 
 
 At that moment Baxter must have been the most astonished 
 man in England. He was waiting for his omnibus and sud- 
 denly some one from nowhere had caught him by the throat^ 
 screamed at him, smacked his cheek. He was no coward; he 
 responded nobly, and in a whirl of sky, omnibuses, women, 
 shop-window and noise they were involved, until, slipping over 
 the edge of the kerb, they fell both into the road. 
 
 Baxter, rising first, muttered : "Look here ! What the devil 
 . . ." then suddenly realized his opponent. 
 
 They had no opportunity for a further encounter. A crowd 
 had instantly gathered and was pressing them in. A police- 
 man had his hand on Henry's collar. 
 
 "Now, then, what's all this?" 
 
 No one can tell what were Baxter's thoughts, the tangle 
 of his emotions, regrets, pride, remorse, since that last scene 
 with Millie. All that is known is that he pushed aside some 
 small boy pressing up with excited wonder in his face, brushed 
 through the crowd and was gone.
 
 300 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 Henry remained. He stood up, the centre of an excited circle, 
 the policeman's hand on his shoulder. His glasses were gone 
 and the world was a blur; he had a large bump on his fore- 
 head, his breath came in confused, excited pants, his collar was 
 torn. So suddenly had the incident occurred that no one could 
 give an account of it. Some one had been knocked down by 
 some one or had some one fallen? Was it a robbery or an 
 attempted murder? Out of the mist of voices and faces the 
 large, broad shoulders of the policeman were the only certain 
 fact. 
 
 "Now, then, clear out of this. . . . Move along there." The 
 policeman looked at Henry; Henry looked at the policeman. 
 Instantly there was sympathy between them. The policeman's 
 face was round and red like a sun; his eyes were mild as a 
 cow's. 
 
 Henry found that his hat was on his head, that he was with- 
 drawn from the crowd, that he and the policeman together 
 were moving towards Panton Street. Endeavours had been 
 made to find the other man. There was apparently no Other 
 Man. There had never been one according to one shrill- 
 voiced lady. 
 
 "Now whafs all this about?" asked the policeman. His tone 
 was fatherly and even affectionate. 
 
 "I hit him," said Henry, panting. 
 
 "Well, where is 'e?" asked the policeman, vaguely looking 
 about. 
 
 "I don't know. I don't care. You can arrest me if you 
 like," panted Henry. 
 
 "Well, I ought to give you in charge by rights," said the 
 
 policeman, "but seeing as the other feller's 'ooked it What 
 
 did you do it for?" 
 
 "I'm not going to say." 
 
 "You'll have to say if I take you to Bow Street." 
 
 "You can if you like." 
 
 The policeman looked at Henry, shaking his head. "It's the 
 War," he said. "You wouldn't believe what a number of seem- 
 ingly peaceable people are knocking one another about. You 
 don't look very savage. You'll have to give me your name and 
 address."
 
 A DEATH AND A BATTLE 301 
 
 Henry gave it. 
 
 "Why, here's your lodging. . . . You seem peaceable enough." 
 He shook his head again. "It don't do/' he said, "just knock- 
 ing people down when you feel like it. That's Bolshevism, 
 that is." 
 
 "I'm glad I knocked him down," said Henry. 
 
 "You'd feel differently to-morrow morning after a night in 
 Bow Street. But I know myself how tempting it is. You'll 
 learn to restrain yourself when you come to my age. Now 
 you go in and 'ave a wash and brush up. You need it." He 
 patted Henry paternally on the shoulder. "I don't expect 
 you're likely to hear much more of it." 
 
 With a smile of infinite wisdom he moved away. Henry 
 stumbled up to his room. 
 
 Perhaps he had been a cad to hit Baxter when he wasn't 
 expecting it. But he felt better. His head was aching like 
 hell. But he felt better. And to-morrow he would work at those 
 letters like a fanatic. He washed his face and realized with 
 pleasure that although it was only the middle of the morning 
 he was extremely hungry. Millie yes, he was glad that he 
 had hit Baxter.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 MILLIE RECOVERS HER BREATH 
 
 ON" the next afternoon about four of the clock Millie was 
 writing letters with a sort of vindictive fury at Victoria's 
 desk. Beppo had just brought her a cup of tea; there it stood 
 at her side with the bread and butter badly cut as usual. But 
 she did not care. She must WORK, WORK, WORK. 
 
 Like quicksilver were her fingers, her eyes flashed fire, the 
 rain beat upon the windows and the loneliness and desolation 
 were held at bay. 
 
 The door opened and in came Major Mereward; he looked 
 as usual, untidy, with his hair towselled, his moustache ragged 
 and his trousers baggy not a military major at all but now 
 a light shone in his eyes and his eyebrows gleamed with the 
 reflection of it. He knew that Millie was his friend, and com- 
 ing close to her and stammering, he said: 
 
 "Miss Trenchard. It's all right. It's all right. Victoria will 
 marry me." 
 
 Her heart leaped up. She was astonished at the keenness 
 of her pleasure. She could then still care for other people's 
 happiness. 
 
 "Oh, I am glad! I am glad!" she cried, jumping up and 
 shaking him warmly by the hand. "I never was more pleased 
 about anything." 
 
 "Well, now, that is nice that's very nice of you. It will 
 be all right, won't it? You know I'll do my best to make her 
 happy." 
 
 "Why, of course you will," cried Millie. "You know that 
 I've wanted her to marry you from ever so long ago. If & 
 just what I wanted." 
 
 He set back his shoulders, looking so suddenly a man of 
 strength and character that Millie was astonished. 
 
 302
 
 MILLIE EECOVEKS HER BREATH 303 
 
 "I know that I'm not very clever," he said. "Not in your 
 sort of way, but cleverness isn't everything when you come to 
 my time of life and Victoria's." 
 
 "No, indeed it isn't," said Millie with conviction. 
 
 "I'm glad you think so," he said, sighing so hastily that 
 quite a little breeze sprang up. "I thought you'd feel other- 
 wise. But I know Victoria better than she thinks. I'm sure I 
 shall make her happy." 
 
 "I'm sure you will," said Millie. They shook hands again. 
 Mereward looked about him confusedly. 
 
 "Well, I mustn't keep you from your work. Hard at it, I 
 see. Hum, yes . . . Hard at it, I see," and went. 
 
 Millie sat at her desk, her head propped on her hands. She 
 wasn't dead then? She drank her tea and smoked a cigarette. 
 Not dead as far as others were concerned. For herself, of 
 course, life was entirely over. She must drag herself along, 
 like a wounded bird, until death chose to come and take her. 
 The tea was delicious. She got up and looked at herself in 
 the glass. She was wearing an old orange jumper to-day; 
 she'd put it on just because it was old and it didn't matter 
 what she wore. Yes, it was old. Time to buy another one. 
 There was one a kind of purple in Debenham & Freebody's 
 window. . . . But why think of jumpers when her life was 
 over? Only five days ago she had died, and here she was 
 thinking of jumpers. Well, that was because she was so glad 
 about Victoria. However finished your own personal life might 
 be that did not mean that you could not be interested in the 
 lives of others. She loved Victoria, and it would have been, 
 horrible had she married that terrible Bennett. Now Victoria 
 was safe and Millie was glad. She must find her and tell her 
 so. 
 
 She found her, as she expected, in her bedroom. Victoria 
 had been wonderful to her during those three days, using a 
 tact that you never would have expected. She must have 
 known what had occurred but she had made no allusion to it, 
 had not asked where He was, had watched over Millie with a 
 tenderness and solicitude that, even though a little irritating, 
 was very touching. 
 
 Now she sat in her bedroom armchair, still wearing her
 
 304 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 gay hat with peacocks' feathers; she was near laughter, nearer 
 tears and altogether in a considerable confusion. Millie flung 
 her arms around her and kissed her. 
 
 "Well, now, you've got your way," said Victoria, "an* I 
 hope you're glad. If the marriage is a terrible failure it will 
 be all your fault; I hope you realize your responsibility. It 
 was simply because I couldn't go on being nagged by you any 
 longer. Poor man. He did look so funny when he propped 
 to me, and when I said yes he just ran out of the room. He 
 didn't kiss me or anything." 
 
 "He's just mad with delight," said Millie. 
 
 "Is he? Well, it's settled." She sat up, pushing her hat 
 straight. "All my adventures are over, my Millie. Ifs a very 
 sad thing, when you come to think of it. A quiet life for me 
 now. It certainly wouldn't have been quiet with Mr. Bennett." 
 
 "Now don't you go sighing over him," said Millie. "Make 
 the most of your Major." 
 
 "Oh, I shan't sigh after him," said Victoria, sighing never- 
 theless. "But it would be lovely to feel wildly in love. I don't 
 feel wildly in love at all. Do you know, Millie mine, it's exactly 
 what I feel if I want to buy a dress that's too expensive for 
 me. Excited for days and days as to whether I will or I 
 won't. And then I decide that I will and the excitement's all 
 over. Of course I have the dress. But it isn't as nice as the 
 excitement." 
 
 "Perhaps the excitement will come with marriage," said Millie, 
 feeling infinitely old. "It often does." 
 
 "Now how ridiculous," cried Victoria, jumping up, "to talk 
 of excitement at my age. I ought to be thankful that I can be 
 married at all. I'm sure he's a good man. Perhaps I wish 
 that he weren't quite so good as he is." 
 
 "You wait," said Millie, 'Tie may develop terribly after mar- 
 riage. They often do. He may beat you and spend your 
 money riotously and leave you for weeks at a time." 
 
 "Oh, do you think so?" said Victoria, her cheeks flushing. 
 "That would be splendid. Just the risk of it, I mean. But 
 I'm afraid there isn't much hope. . . ." 
 
 "You never know," Millie replied. "And now, dear, if 
 you'll let me I'll be off. You'll find all the letters answered
 
 MILLIE RECOVERS HER BREATH 305 
 
 in a pile on the desk waiting for you to sign. The one from 
 Mr. Block I've left you to answer for yourself/' She paused. 
 " After your marriage you won't be wanting me any more, I 
 suppose ?" 
 
 "Want you ! I shall want you more than ever. You darling ! 
 
 I'm never going to let you go unless you " Here she felt 
 
 on dangerous ground and ended, "unless you want to go your- 
 self, I mean." 
 
 "No, you didn't mean that," said Millie. "What you meant 
 was unless I marry. Well, you can make your mind easy 
 I'm never going to marry. Never! I'm going to die an old 
 maid." 
 
 "And you so beautiful !" cried Victoria. "I don't think so," 
 and she threw her arms round Millie's neck and gave her one 
 of those soft and soapy kisses that Millie so especially detested. 
 
 But on her way home she forgot the newly-engaged. The full 
 tide of her own personal wretchedness swept up and swallowed 
 her in dark and blinding waters. She had noticed that it was 
 always like that. She seemed free coldly, indifferently free 
 independent of the world, standing and watching with scorn 
 humanity, and then of a sudden the waters caught at her feet, 
 the tide drew her, the foam was in her eyes and with agony she 
 drowned in the flood of recollection, of vanished tenderness, of 
 frustrated hope. 
 
 It was so now: sEe did not see the people with her in the 
 Tube nor hear their voices. Only she saw Bunny and heard 
 his voice and felt his cheek against hers. 
 
 Then there followed, as there always followed, the fight to 
 return to him, not now reasoning nor recalling any definite fact 
 or argument, but only, as it had been that first night, the im- 
 pulse to return, to find him again, to be with him and near 
 him at all possible cost or sacrifice. 
 
 She was fighting her own misery, staring in front of her, 
 her hands clenched on her lap, when she heard her name called. 
 At first the voice seemed to call from far away: "Millie! 
 Millie!" Then quite close to her. Some one, sitting almost 
 opposite to her was leaning forward and speaking to her. 
 She raised her head out of her own troubles and looked and 
 saw that it was Peter.
 
 306 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 Peter! The very sight of his square shoulders and thick, 
 resolute figure reassured her. Peter! Strangely she had not 
 actually thought of him in all this recent trouble, but the 
 consciousness of him had nevertheless been there behind her. 
 She smiled, her face breaking into light, and then, with that 
 swift sympathy that trouble gives, she realized that he himself 
 was unhappy. Something had happened to him, and how tired 
 he was ! His eyes were pinched with grey lines, his head hung 
 forward a little as though it was tumbling to sleep. 
 
 Just then Baker Street Station arrived and they got out to- 
 gether. He caught her arm and they went up in the lift to- 
 gether. They came out to a lovely autumn evening, the sky 
 dotted with silver stars and the wall of Tussaud's pearl-grey 
 against the faint jade of the fading light. "What's the mat- 
 ter, Millie?" he asked. "I haven't seen you for a fortnight. I 
 was watching you before I spoke to you. You looked too tragic 
 before I spoke to you. What's up?" 
 
 "I was going to ask you the same question/' she said. 
 
 "Oh, I'm only tired. Here, I'll walk with you as far as your 
 rooms. I want to get an evening paper anyway." 
 
 "Only tired? What's made you?" 
 
 "I'll tell you in a minute. But tell me your trouble first. 
 That is, if you want to." 
 
 "Oh, my trouble!" she shrugged her shoulders. "Ordinary 
 enough, Peter. But I don't think I can talk about it, if you 
 don't mind at least not yet. Only this. That I'm not en- 
 gaged and I'm never going to be again. I'm a free woman 
 Peter." 
 
 She felt then his whole body tremble against hers. For an 
 instant his hand pressed against her side with such force that 
 it hurt. Then he took his hand from her arm and walked 
 apart. He walked in silence, rolling a little from leg to leg as 
 was his way. And he said nothing. She waited. She ex- 
 pected him to ask some question. He said nothing. Then, 
 when at last they were turning down into Baker Street, his 
 voice husky, he said: 
 
 "My trouble is that my wife's come back." 
 
 It took her some little while to realize that then she said:
 
 MILLIE EECOVERS HEK BREATH 307 
 
 "Your wife?" 
 
 "Yes, after nearly twenty years. Of course I don't mean that 
 that's a trouble. But she's ill very ill indeed. She's very 
 unhappy. She's had a terrible time." 
 
 "Oh, Peter, I am sorry V 
 
 "Yes, ifs difficult after all this time difficult to find the 
 joining-points. And I'm not very good at that clumsy and 
 slow." 
 
 "Is her illness serious? What is it?" 
 
 "Everything! Everything's the matter with her heart and 
 all. But that isn't her chief trouble. She's so lonely. Can't 
 get near to anybody. It's so difficult to help her. I'm stupid," 
 he repeated. They had come to Millie's door. They stood there 
 facing one another in the dusk. 
 
 "Oh, I am sorry," she repeated. 
 
 "Well, you must help me," he suddenly jerked out, almost 
 roughly. "Only you can." 
 
 "Help you? How?" 
 
 "Come and see her." 
 
 "I? ... Oh no!" Millie shrank back. 
 
 "Yes, you must. Perhaps you can talk to her. Make her 
 laugh a little. Make her a little less unhappy." 
 
 "I make any one laugh?" 
 
 "Yes. Just to look at you will do her good. Something 
 beautiful. Something to take her out of herself " 
 
 "Oh no, Peter, I can't. Please, please don't ask me." 
 
 "Yes, yes, you must." He was glaring at her as though 
 he would strike her. "Do you remember when we three were 
 in Henry's room alone and we swore friendship? We swore 
 to help one another. Well, this is a way you can help me. 
 And you've got to do it." 
 
 "Peter, don't ask me just now " 
 
 "Yes, now at once. You have got to." 
 
 Suddenly she submitted. 
 
 "Very well, then. But I'll be no good. I'm no use to any 
 one just now." 
 
 "When will you come?" 
 
 "Soon. , . ."
 
 308 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 "No, definitely. To-morrow. What time?" 
 
 "Not to-morrow, Peter. The day after." 
 
 "Yes, to-morrow. To-morrow afternoon. About five." 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 "I'll expect you." He strode off. It was not until she 
 was in her room that she realized that he had said no single 
 word about her broken engagement.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 AND FINDS SOME ONE WORSE OFF THAN HERSELF 
 
 MILLIE stood in Peter's room looking about her with 
 uneasy discomfort. She was alone there: Peter, after 
 greeting her, had gone into the bedroom. She felt that he was 
 in there protesting and arguing with some one who refused a 
 meeting. She hated him for putting her in so false a position. 
 She was tired with her day's work. Victoria, now that she was 
 engaged, allowing, nay encouraging, moods to sweep across 
 her as swiftly as clouds traverse the sun. She would wait only 
 a moment longer and then she would go. She had kept her 
 word to Peter by coming. That was enough. 
 
 The door opened, and a little woman, a shawl around her 
 shoulders, came out, moved to the sofa without looking at- 
 Millie, and lay down upon it. Peter followed her, arranged 
 the cushions for her, drew a little table to her side and placed 
 a cup and saucer upon it. Millie, in spite of herself, was 
 touched by the careful clumsiness of his movements. Never- 
 theless she longed to do these things herself. 
 
 Peter turned to her. "Clare, dear/' he said, "I want you to 
 know a very great friend of mine, Miss Trenchard. Millie, 
 dear, this is my wife." 
 
 Millie came over to the sofa, and in spite of her proud self- 
 control her heart beat with pity. She realized at that instant 
 that here was a woman who had gone so far in life's experience 
 beyond her own timid venturings that there could be no com- 
 parison at all between them. Her passionate love of truth wa& 
 one of her finest traits; one glance at Clare Westcott's face 
 and her own little story faded into nothingness before that 
 weariness, that anger, that indignation. 
 
 She took Clare's hand and then sat down, drawing a chair 
 closer to the sofa. Peter had left the room. 
 
 309
 
 310 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 kind of you to come and see me/' Clare said indiffer- 
 ently, her eyes roaming about the room. 
 
 "Peter asked me," said Millie. 
 
 "Oh, I know/' Clare said. "Do come and see my poor 
 wife. She's very ill, she hasn't long to live. She's had a very 
 bad time. You'll cheer her up. Wasn't that it?" 
 
 Millie laughed. "He said that you'd been ill and he'd like 
 me to come and see you. But I believe it was more to do me 
 good than you. I've been in a bit of trouble myself and have 
 altogether been thinking too much about myself." 
 
 Millie's laugh attracted Clare's attention. Her wandering 
 glance suddenly settled on Millie's face. 
 
 "You're beautiful," she said. "I like all that bright colour. 
 Purple suits you and you wear clothes well, too, which hardly 
 any English girls do. It's clever, that little bit of white there. 
 . . . Nice shoes you have . . . lovely hair. I wonder . . ." 
 
 She broke off, staring at Millie. "Why, of course! You're 
 the girl Peter's in love with." 
 
 "Me !" 
 
 "Yes, you. Of course I discovered after I'd been back an 
 hour that there was somebody. Peter isn't so subtle but that 
 you can't find out what he's thinking. Besides, I knew him 
 twenty years ago and he hasn't changed as much as I have. 
 You're the girl! Well, I'm not sorry. I did him an injury 
 twenty years ago, more or less ruined his life for him, and I 
 won't be sorry to do him a good turn before I go. You won't 
 have long to wait, my dear. I was very nearly finished last 
 night, if you want to know. I can tell you a few things about 
 Peter that it will be good for you to understand if you're 
 going to live with him." 
 
 "Oh, but you're wrong ! You're entirely wrong !" cried Millie. 
 "I'm sure Peter doesn't love me, and even if he did anyway, 
 I don't love him. I was engaged until a few days ago. It has 
 just been broken off some one I loved very much. That's 
 the trouble I spoke about just now/' 
 
 "Tell me about it," said Clare, looking at her with eyes half- 
 closed. 
 
 "Oh, but you wouldn't it isn't - " 
 
 "Yes, I would . . . Yes, it is. ... Eemember there's nothing
 
 SOME ONE WOKSE OFF THAN HERSELF 311 
 
 about men I don't know. You look so young: you can't know 
 very much. Perhaps I can help you." 
 
 "No," said Millie, shaking her head. "You can't help me. 
 No one can help me but myself. If s all over quite, quite 
 over." 
 
 "What did he do, the young man ?" 
 
 "We were engaged six months ago. Meanwhile he was really 
 engaged to another girl in his own village. She is going to have 
 a baby this month his baby. I didn't know of this. He never 
 would have told me if some one hadn't gone to his village and 
 found it all out." 
 
 "Some one? Who? A woman?" 
 
 "Yes. She thought she was helping me." 
 
 "Are you sure it's true?" 
 
 "Yes. He admitted it himself." 
 
 "Hum. Were you very much in love with him?" 
 
 "Yes, terribly." 
 
 "No, not terribly, my dear, or you'd have gone off with him 
 whatever happened. Do you love him still?" 
 
 "I don't know. He doesn't seem to belong to me any more. 
 It was knowing that he wasn't going to help that poor girl about 
 her baby that came right down between us. That was cruel, 
 and cruelty's worse than anything. He could have been cruel 
 to me he was sometimes, and I daresay I was to him. People 
 generally are when they are in love with one another. But 
 that poor girl " 
 
 "Never mind that poor girl. We don't know how much of it 
 was her doing. Perhaps she's not going to have a baby at all. 
 Anyway, it may not be his baby. No, if you'd been really in 
 love with him you'd have gone down to that village and found 
 it all out for yourself, the exact truth. And then, probably 
 you'd have married him even if it had been true. . . . Oh, yes, 
 you would. My dear, you're too young to know anything about 
 love yet. Now tell me weren't you feeling very uncertain 
 about it all long before this happened?" 
 
 "I had some miserable times." 
 
 "Yes, more and more miserable as time went on. But not so 
 miserable as they are now. I know. But what you're feeling
 
 312 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 now is loneliness. And soon you won't be lonely with your 
 prettiness and health and love of life." 
 
 "Oh, you're wrong! you're wrong!" cried Millie. "You are 
 indeed. Love is over for me. I'm never going to think of it 
 again. That part of my life's done." 
 
 Clare smiled. "Good God, how young you are!" she said. 
 "I was like that myself once, another life, another world. But 
 I was never like you, never lovely as you are. I was pretty in 
 a commonplace kind of way. Pretty enough to turn poor Peter's 
 head. That's about all. Now listen, and I'll tell you a little 
 about myself. Would you like to hear it?" 
 
 "Yes," said Millie. 
 
 The memory came to her of Peter telling her this same story ; 
 for a flashing second she saw him standing beside her, the look 
 that he gave her. Was she not glad now that he loved her ? 
 
 Clare began: "I was the daughter of a London doctor an 
 only child. My parents spoilt me terribly, and I thought I 
 was wonderful, clever, and beautiful and everything. Of course, 
 I always meant to be married, and there were several young 
 men I was considering, and then Peter came along. He had 
 just published his first book and it was a great success. Every 
 one was talking about it. He was better-looking then than he 
 is now, not so fat, and he had a romantic history starving in 
 the slums and some one discovered him and just saved his life. 
 He was wildly in love with me. I thought he was going to be 
 great and famous, and I liked the idea of being the wife of a 
 famous man. And then for a moment, perhaps, I really was in 
 love with him, physically, you know. And I knew nothing about 
 life, nothing whatever. I thought it would be always comfort- 
 able and safe, that I should have my way in everything as I 
 always had done. Well, we were married, and it went wrong 
 from the beginning. Peter knew nothing about women at all. 
 He had strange friends whom I couldn't bear. Then I had a 
 child and that frightened me. Then he got on badly with 
 mother, who was always interfering. Then the other books 
 weren't as successful as the first, and I thought he ought to 
 give me more good times and grudged the hours he spent over 
 his work. Then our boy died and the last link between us seemed 
 to be broken. . . . Well, to cut a long story short, his best friend
 
 SOME ONE WORSE OFF THAN HERSELF 318 
 
 came along and made love to me, and I ran off with him to 
 Paris." 
 
 "Oh!" cried Millie, "poor Peter!" 
 
 "Yes, and poor me too, although you may not believe it. I 
 only ran off with him because I hated my London life so and 
 hated Peter and wanted some one to make a fuss of me. I 
 hadn't been in Paris a week before I knew my mistake. Never 
 run off with a man you're not married to, my dear, if you're 
 under thirty. You're simply asking for it. He was disappointed 
 too, I suppose at any rate after about six months of it he left 
 me on some excuse and went off to the East. I wasn't sorry; 
 I was thinking of Peter again and I'd have gone back to him, 
 I believe, if my mother hadn't prevented me. . . . Well, I lived 
 with her in Paris for two years and then and then Maurice 
 appeared." 
 
 She stopped, closing her eyes, lying back against her cushions, 
 her hand on her heart. She shook her head when Millie wanted 
 to fetch somebody. 
 
 At last she went on : "No, let's have this time alone together. 
 It may be the only time we'll get . . . Maurice . . . yes. That 
 was love, if you like. Didn't I know the difference? You bet ! 
 He was a French poet. Funny ! two writers, Peter and Maurice, 
 when I myself hadn't the brain of a snail. But Maurice didn't 
 care about my brain. I don't know what he did care about 
 but I gave him the best I had. He was married already of 
 course, and so was I, but we went off together and travelled. 
 He had some money not very much, but enough and things 
 I wouldn't have endured for Peter's sake I adored for Maurice's. 
 
 "We settled down finally in Spain and had three divine years. 
 Then Maurice fell ill, money ran short, I fell ill, everything was 
 wrong. But never our love that never changed, never faltered. 
 We quarrelled sometimes, of course, but even in the middle of 
 the worst of our fights we knew that it wasn't serious, that really 
 nothing could separate us but death for once that sentimental 
 phrase was justified. Well, death did. Two months before the 
 War he died. My mother had died the year before and as I 
 learnt later my father two years before. But I didn't care what 
 happened to me. When real love has come to you, then you do 
 know what loneliness means. The War gave me something to
 
 314 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 do but my heart was all wrong. I fell ill again in Paris, was all 
 alone, tried to die and couldn't, tried to live and couldn't. . . . 
 We won't talk about that time if you don't mind. 
 
 "I had often thought of Peter, of course. I felt guilty about 
 him as about nothing else in my life. He was so young when 
 I married him, such an infant, so absurdly romantic; I spoilt 
 everything for him as I couldn't have spoilt it for most men. 
 He is such a child still. Thaf s why you ought to marry him, 
 my dear, because you're such a child too. And your brother 
 infants all three of you. I used to think of returning to him. I 
 myself was romantic enough to think that he might still be in 
 love with me, and although I was much too tired to care for any 
 one again, the thought of some one caring for me again was 
 pleasant. Twice I nearly hunted him out. Once hunger almost 
 drove me but I tried not to go for that reason, having, you see, 
 still a scrap of sentiment about me. Then a man who'd been 
 very good to me but at last couldn't stand my moods and tan- 
 trums any longer left me small blame to him ! and I gathered 
 my last few coppers together and came to Peter. I nearly 
 died on his doorstep now instead I'm going to die inside. It's 
 warmer and more comfortable." 
 
 "No, no, no, you're not!" cried Millie. "You're going to 
 live. Peter and I will see to it. We're going to make you 
 live." 
 
 Clare frowned. 
 
 "Don't be sentimental, my dear. Face facts. It would be 
 extremely tiresome for you if I lived. You may not be in love 
 with Peter but you like him very much, and there'll be nothing 
 more awkward for you than having a sick woman lying round 
 here " 
 
 Millie broke in: 
 
 "There you're wrong! you're wrong indeed! I'd love t(? 
 make you well. It isn't sentiment. It's truth. How have I 
 dared to tell you about my silly little affair when you've suf- 
 fered as you have! How selfish I am and egoistic give me a 
 chance to help you and I'll show you what I can do." 
 
 Clare shook her head again. "Well, then," she said, "if I 
 can't put you off that way I'll put you off another. You'd 
 bore me in a week, you and Peter. I've been with bad people
 
 SOME ONE WOKSE OFF THAN" HERSELF 315 
 
 so long that I find good ones very tiresome. Mother was bad.. 
 That's a terrible thing to say about your mother, isn't it? 
 but if s true. And I've got a bad strain from her. You're 
 a nice girl and beautiful to look at, but you're too English for 
 me. I should feel as though you were District Visiting when 
 you came to see me. Just as I feel about Peter when he drops 
 his voice and walks so heavily on tip-toe and looks at me with 
 such anxious eyes. No, my dear, I've told you all this because 
 I want you to make it up to Peter when I've gone. You're 
 ideally suited to one another. When I look at him I feel as 
 though I'd been torturing one of those white mice we used to 
 keep at school. I'm not for you and you're not for me. My 
 game's finished. I'll give you my blessing and depart." 
 
 Millie flushed and answered slowly: "How do you know 
 I'm so good? How do you know I know nothing about life? 
 Perhaps I have deceived myself over this love affair. It was my 
 first : I gave him all I could. Perhaps you're right. If I'd loved 
 him more I'd have given him everything. . . . But I don't 
 know. Is it being a District Visitor to respect yourself and him ? 
 Is the body more important than anything else? I don't call 
 myself good. ... I don't call myself bad. It's only the different 
 values we put on things." 
 
 Clare looked at her curiously. "Perhaps you're right," she 
 said. "Physical love when that's all there is, is terribly dis- 
 appointing an awful sell. I could have been a friend of 
 yours if I'd been younger. There! Get up a moment stand 
 over there. I want to look at you!" 
 
 Millie got up, crossed the room and stood, her arms at her 
 side, her eyes gravely watching. 
 
 Clare sat up, leaning on her elbow. "Yes, you're lovely. 
 Men will be crazy about you you'd better marry Peter quickly. 
 And you're fine too. There's spirit in you. Move your arm. 
 So! Now turn your head. . . . Ah, that's good! That's 
 good! . . ." 
 
 She suddenly turned, buried her face in the cushions and 
 burst into tears. Millie ran across to her and put her arms 
 round her. Clare lay for a moment, her body shaken with sobs. 
 Then she pushed her away.
 
 316 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 "No, no. I don't want petting. Ifs only what it all might 
 have been. You're so young: ifs all before you. It's over for 
 me over, over!" 
 
 She gave her one more long look. 
 
 "Now go," she said, "go quickly or I'll want to poison you. 
 Leave me alone " 
 
 Millie took her hat and coat and went out into the rain.
 
 CHAPTER YI 
 
 CLAEB GOBS 
 
 night Clare died. 
 JL Peter slept always now in the sitting-room "with th 
 door open lest she should need anything. He was tired that 
 night, exhausted with struggles of conscience, battles of the 
 flesh, forebodings of the future ; he slept heavily without dreams. 
 When at seven in the morning he came to see whether she were 
 awake, he found her, staring ironically in front of her, dead. 
 
 Heart-failure the doctor afterwards said. He had told Peter 
 days before that veronal and other things were old friends of 
 hers. To-day no sign of them. Nevertheless . . . had she 
 assisted herself a little along the inevitable road? Before he 
 left on the evening before she had talked to him. He was often 
 afterwards to see her, sitting up on the sofa, her yellow hair 
 piled untidily on her head, her face like the mask of a tired 
 child, her eyes angry as always. 
 
 "Well, Peter/' she had said, "so you're in love with that girl ?" 
 
 He admitted it at once, standing stolidly in front of her, 
 looking at her with that pity in his eyes that irritated her so 
 desperately. 
 
 "Yes, I love her," he said, "but she doesn't love me. When 
 you're better we'll go away and live somewhere else. Paris 
 if you like. We'll make a better thing of it, Clare, than we 
 did the first time." 
 
 "Very magnanimous," she answered him. "But don't be too 
 sure that she doesn't love you. Or she will when she's recovered 
 from this present little affair. You must marry her, Peter 
 and if you do you'll make a success of it. She's the honestest 
 woman I've met yet and you're the honestest man I know. 
 You'll suit one another. . . . Mind you, I don't mean that as 
 a compliment. People as honest as you two are tiresome for 
 
 317
 
 318 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 ordinary folks to live with. I found you tiresome twenty 
 years ago, Peter, I find you tiresome still." 
 
 He suddenly came down and knelt beside her sofa putting 
 his arm round her. "Clare, please, please don't talk like that. 
 My life's with you now. I daresay you find me dull. I am 
 dull I know. But I'm old enough to understand now that you 
 must have your freedom. All that I care about is for you to 
 get well; then you shall do as you like. I won't tie you in 
 any way; only be there if you want a friend." 
 
 She suddenly put up her hand and stroked his cheek, then 
 as suddenly withdrew her hand and tucked it under her. 
 
 "Poor Peter," she said. "It was bad luck my coming back 
 like that just when she'd broken with her young man. Never 
 mind. I'll see what I can do. I did you a bad turn once 
 it would be nice and Christian of me to do you a good turn 
 now. We ought never to have married of course but you 
 would marry me, you know." 
 
 She looked at him curiously, as though she were seeing him 
 for the first time. 
 
 "What do you think about life, Peter? What does it mean 
 to you, all this fuss and agitation?" 
 
 "Mean?" he repeated. "Oh, I don't know." 
 
 "Yes, you do," she answered him. "I know exactly what 
 you think. You think if s for us all to get better in. To learn 
 from experience, a kind of boarding-school before the next 
 world." 
 
 "Well, I suppose I do think it's something of that sort," 
 he answered. "It hasn't any meaning for me otherwise. It 
 feels like a fight and a fight about something real." 
 
 "And what about the people who get worse instead of better? 
 It's rather hard luck on them. It isn't their fault half the 
 time." 
 
 "We don't see the thing as it really is, I expect," he answered 
 her, "nor people as they really are." 
 
 She moved restlessly. 
 
 "Now we're getting preachy. I expect you get preachy rather 
 easily just as you used to. All I know is that I'm tired tired 
 to death. Do you remember how frightened I used to be twenty 
 years ago? Well, I'm not frightened any longer. There's
 
 CLAEE GOES 319 
 
 nothing left to be frightened of. Nothing could be worse than 
 what I've had already. But I'm tired damnably, damnably 
 tired. And now I think I'll just turn over and go to sleep 
 if you'll leave me for a bit." 
 
 He kissed her and left her, and at some moment between 
 then and the morning she left him.
 
 THE RESCUE 
 
 AT the very moment that Millie -was knocking on Peter's door 
 Henry was sitting, a large bump on his forehead, look- 
 ing at a dirty piece of paper. Only yesterday he had fought 
 Baxter in Piccadilly Circus; now Baxter and everything and 
 every one about him was as far from his consciousness as 
 Heaven was from 1920 London. The Real had departed 
 the coloured life of the imaginations had taken its place. . . . 
 The appeal for which all his life he had been waiting had come 
 it was contained in that same dirty piece of paper. 
 
 The piece of paper was of the blue-grey kind, torn in haste 
 from a washing bill; the cheap envelope that had contained 
 it lay at Henry's feet. 
 
 On the piece of paper in a childish hand was scrawled this 
 ill-spelt message: "Please come as quikley as you can or it 
 will be to late." 
 
 Mr. King's factotum, a long, thin young man with carroty 
 hair, had brought the envelope five minutes before. The St. 
 James' church clock had just struck five; it was raining hard, 
 the water running from the eaves above Henry's attic win- 
 dow across and down with a curious little gurgling chuckle that 
 was all his life afterwards to be connected with this evening. 
 
 There was no signature to the paper; he had never seen 
 Christina's handwriting before; it might be a blind or a decoy 
 or simply a practical joke. Nevertheless, he did not for a 
 moment hesitate as to what he would do. He had already 
 that afternoon decided in the empty melancholy of the deserted 
 Hill Street library that he must that same evening make another 
 attack on Peter Street. He was determined that this time he 
 would discover once and for all the truth about Christina even 
 though he had to wring Mrs. Tenssen's skinny neck to secure it. 
 
 320
 
 THE EESCTJE 321 
 
 He had returned to Panton Street fired with this resolve; 
 five minutes later the note had been delivered to him. 
 
 He washed his face, put on a clean collar, placed the note 
 carefully in his pocket-book and started out on the great adven- 
 ture of his life. The rain was driving so lustily down Peter 
 Street that no one was about. He moved like a man in a dream, 
 driven by some fantastic force of his imagination as though 
 he were still sitting in Panton Street and this were a new 
 chapter that he was writing in his romance or as though his 
 body were in Panton Street and it was his soul that sallied 
 forth. And yet the details about Mrs. Tenssen were real enough 
 he could still hear her crunching the sardine-bones, and Peter 
 Street was real enough, and the rain as it trickled inside his 
 collar, and the bump on his forehead. 
 
 Nevertheless in dreams too details were real. 
 
 As though he had done all this before (having as it were 
 rehearsed it somewhere), he did not this time go to the little 
 door but went rather to the yard that had seen his first attack. 
 He stumbled in the dusk over boxes, planks of wood and pieces 
 of iron, hoops and wheels and bars. 
 
 Once he almost fell and the noise that he made seemed to 
 his anxious ears terrific, but suddenly he stumbled against the 
 little wooden stair, set his foot thereon and started to climb. 
 Soon he felt the trap-door, pushed it up with his hand and 
 climbed into the passage. Once more he was in the gallery, 
 and once more he had looked through into the courtyard be- 
 yond, now striped and misted with the driving rain. 
 
 N"o human being was to be seen or heard. He moved indeed 
 as in a dream. He was now by the long window, curtained as 
 before. This time no voices came from the other side; there 
 was no sound in all the world but the rain. 
 
 Again, as in dreams, he knew what would happen: that he 
 would push at the window, find it on this occasion fastened, 
 push again with his elbow, then with both hands shove against 
 the glass. All this he did, the doors of the window sprang apart 
 and it was only with the greatest difficulty that he saved him- 
 self from falling on to his knees as he had done on the earlier 
 occasion. 
 
 He parted the curtains and walked into the room. He found
 
 322 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 a group staring towards the window. At the table, her hands 
 folded in front of her, sat Christina, wearing the hat with the 
 crimson feather as she had done the first time he had seen her. 
 On a chair sat Mrs. Tenssen, dressed for a journey; she had 
 obviously been bending over a large bag that she was trying to 
 close when the noise that Henry made at the window diverted 
 her. 
 
 Near the door, his face puckered with alarm, a soft grey hat 
 on his head and very elegant brown gloves on his hands, was 
 old Mr. Leishman. 
 
 Henry, without looking at the two of them, went up to Chris- 
 tina and said: 
 
 "I came at once." 
 
 Mrs. Tenssen, her face a dusty chalk-colour with anger, 
 jumped up and moved forward as though she were going to 
 attack Henry with her nails. Leishman murmured something; 
 with great difficulty she restrained herself, paused where she was 
 and then in her favourite attitude, standing, her hands on her 
 hips, cried: 
 
 "Then it is jail for you after all, young man. In two min- 
 utes we'll have the police here and we'll see what you have to 
 say then to a charge of house-breaking." 
 
 "See, Henry," said Christina, speaking quickly, "this is why 
 I have sent for you. My uncle has come to London at last and 
 is to be here to-morrow morning to see us. My mother says 
 I am to go with her now into the country to some house of his," 
 nodding with her head towards Leishman, "and I refuse 
 and " 
 
 "Yes," screamed Mrs. Tenssen, "but you'll be in that cab 
 in the next ten minutes or I'll make it the worse for you and 
 that swollen-faced schoolboy there." There followed then such 
 a torrent of the basest abuse and insult that suddenly Henry 
 was at her, catching her around the throat and crying: "You 
 say that of her ! You dare to say that of her ! You dare to say 
 that of her !" 
 
 This was the third physical encounter of Henry's during the 
 months of this most eventful year: it was certainly the most 
 confused of the three. He felt Mrs. Tenssen's finger-nails in 
 his face and was then aware that she had escaped from him,
 
 THE EESCUE 323 
 
 had snatched the pin from her hat and was about to charge 
 him with it. He turned, caught Christina by the arm, moved 
 as though he would go to the window, then as both Mrs. Tenssen 
 and Leishman rushed in that direction pushed Christina through 
 the door, crying : "Quick ! Down the stairs ! I'll follow you !" 
 
 As soon as he saw that she was through he stood with his 
 back to the door facing them. Again the dream-sensation was 
 upon him. He had the impression that when just now he had 
 attacked Mrs. Tenssen his hands had gone through her as 
 though she had been air. 
 
 He could hear Leishman quavering : "Let them go. . . . This 
 will be bad for us. ... I didn't want ... I don't like . . ." 
 
 Mrs. Tenssen said nothing, then she had rushed across at 
 him, had one hand on his shoulder and with the other was 
 jabbing at him with the hat-pin, crying: "Give me my daugh- 
 ter ! Give me my daughter ! Give me my daughter !" 
 
 With one hand he held off her arm, then with a sudden wrench 
 he was free of her, pushing her back with a sharp jerk, was 
 through the door and down the stairs. 
 
 Christina was waiting for him; he caught her hand and to- 
 gether they ran through the rain-driven street. 
 
 Down Peter Street they ran and down Shaftesbury Avenue, 
 across the Circus and did not stop until they were inside Panton 
 Street door. The storm had emptied the street but, maybe, 
 there are those alive who can tell how once two figures flew 
 through the London air, borne on the very wings of the wind. 
 ... In such a vision do the miracles of this world and the next 
 have their birth! 
 
 Up the stairs, through the door, the key turned, the attic 
 warm and safe about them, and at last Henry, breathless, his 
 coat torn, his back to the door: 
 
 "Now nobody shall take you ! . , . Nobody in all the world ! w
 
 CHAPTBB VIH 
 
 THE MOMENT 
 
 fTlHE miracle had been achieTed. She was sitting npon his 
 JL bed, her hands in her lap, looking with curiosity about her. 
 She was very calm and quiet, as she always was, but she suddenly 
 turned and smiled at him as though she would say: "I do like 
 you for having brought me here." 
 
 His happiness almost choked him, but he was determined to 
 be severely practical. He found out from her the name of her 
 uncle and the hotel at which he was staying. He wrote a few 
 lines saying that Miss Christina Tenssen was here in his room, 
 that it was urgently necessary that she should be fetched by 
 her uncle as soon as possible for reasons that he, Henry, would 
 explain later. He got Christina herself to write a line at the 
 bottom of the page. 
 
 "You see if we went on to your uncle's hotel now at once 
 he might not be in and we would not be able to go up to his 
 room. It is much better that we should stay here. Your mother 
 may come on here, but they shall only take you from this room 
 over my dead body." He laughed. 'That's a phrase/' he said, 
 "that comes naturally to me because I'm a romantic novelist. 
 Nevertheless, this time it's true. All the most absurd things 
 become true at such a time as this. If you knew what nights 
 and days I've dreamt of you being just like this, sitting alone 
 with me like this. . . . Oh, Gimini ! I'm happy. ..." He 
 pressed the bell that here rang and there did not. For the first 
 time in history (but was not to-day a fairy tale?) the carroty- 
 haired factotum arrived with marvellous promptitude, quite 
 breathless with unwonted exertion. Henry gave him the note. 
 He looked for an instant at Christina, then stumbled away. 
 
 "If your uncle is in he should be here in half an hour. If 
 he is out, of course, it will be longer. At least I have half an 
 
 324
 
 THE MOMENT 325 
 
 hour. For half an hour you are my guest in my own palace, 
 and for anything in the world that you require I have only to 
 clap my hands and it shall be brought to you !" 
 
 "I don't want anything," she said; "only to sit here and be 
 quiet and talk to you." She took off her hat and it reposed with 
 its scarlet feather on Henry's rickety table. 
 
 She looked about her, smiling at everything. "I like it all 
 everything. That picture those books. It is so like you 
 even the carpet!" 
 
 "Won't you lie down on the bed?" he said. "And I'll sit here, 
 quite close, where I can see you. And I'll take your hand if 
 you don't mind. I suppose we shan't meet for a long time again, 
 and then we shall be so old that it will all be quite different. 
 I shall never have a moment like this again, and I want to make 
 the very most of it and then remember every instant so long 
 as I live!" 
 
 She lay down as he had asked her and her hand was in his. 
 
 "You don't know what it is," she said, "to be away from 
 that place at last. All this last fortnight my mother has been 
 hesitating what she was to do. She has been trying to per- 
 suade Leishman to take me away himself, but there has been 
 some trouble about money. There has been some other man too. 
 All she has wanted lately is to get the money; she has wanted, 
 I know, to leave the country she has been cursing this town 
 every minute but she was always bargaining for me and could 
 not get quite what she wanted. Then suddenly only this morning 
 she had a letter from my uncle to say that he had arrived. She 
 is more afraid of him than of any one in the world. She and 
 the old man have been quarrelling all the morning, but at last 
 they came to some decision. We were to leave for somewhere 
 by the six o'clock train. She had hardly for a moment her 
 eyes off me, but I had just a minute when I could give that note 
 to Eose, the girl who comes in in the morning to work for us. 
 I was frightened that you might not be here, away from London, 
 but it was all I could do. ... I was happy when I saw you 
 come." 
 
 "This is the top moment of my life," said Henry, "and for 
 ever afterwards I'm going to judge life by this. Just for half 
 an hour you are mine and I am yours, and I can imagine to
 
 326 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 myself that I have only to say the word and I can carry you 
 off to some island where no one can touch you and where we 
 shall be always together." 
 
 "Perhaps that's true," she said, suddenly looking at him. 
 "I have never liked any one as I like you. My father and my 
 uncles were quite different. If you took me away who knows 
 what would come?" 
 
 He shook his head, smiling at her. "No, my dear. You're 
 grateful just now and you feel kind but you're not in love with 
 me and you never, never will be. I'm not the man you'll be 
 in love with. He'll be some one fine, not ugly and clumsy and 
 untidy like me. I can see him one of your own people, very 
 handsome and strong and brave. I'm not brave and I'm cer- 
 tainly not handsome. I lose my temper and then do things on 
 the spur of the moment generally ludicrous things but I'm 
 not really brave. But I believe in life now. I know what it 
 can do and what it can bring, and no one can take that away 
 from me now." 
 
 "I believe," she said, looking at him, "that you're going to 
 do fine things write great books or lead men to do great deeds. 
 I shall be so proud when I hear men speaking your name and 
 praising you. I shall say to myself: 'That's my friend whom 
 they're speaking of. I knew him before they did and I knew 
 what he would do.'" 
 
 "I think," said Henry, "that I always knew that this mo- 
 ment would come. When I was a boy in the country and was 
 always being scolded for something I did wrong or stupidly 
 I used to dream of this. I thought it would come in the War 
 but it didn't. And then when I was in London I would stop 
 sometimes in the street and expect the heavens to open and some 
 miracle to happen. And now the miracle has happened because 
 I love you and you are my friend, and you are here in my shabby 
 room and no one can ever prevent us thinking of one another 
 till we die." 
 
 "I shall always think of you," she answered, "and how good 
 you have been to me. I long for home and Kjobenhaven and 
 Langlinir and Jutland and the sand-dunes, but I shall miss you 
 now I know how I shall miss you. Henry, come back with
 
 THE MOMENT 327 
 
 me if only for a little while. Come and stay with my uncle, 
 and see our life and what kind of people we are." 
 
 His hand shook as it held hers. He stayed looking at her, 
 their eyes lost in one another. It seemed to him an eternity 
 while he waited. Then he shook his head. 
 
 "No. ... It may be cowardice. ... I don't know. But I 
 don't want to spoil this. It's perfect as it is. I want you always 
 to think about me as you do now. You wouldn't perhaps when, 
 you knew me better. You don't see me as I really am, not all 
 the way round. For once I know where to stop, how to keep 
 it perfect. Christina darling, I love you, love you, love you! 
 I'll never love any one like this again. Let me put my arms 
 around you and hold you just once before you go." 
 
 He knelt on the floor beside the bed and put his arms around 
 her. Her cheek was against his. She put up her hand and 
 stroked his hair. 
 
 They stayed there in silence and without moving, their hearts 
 beating together. 
 
 There was a knock on the door. 
 
 "Give me something," he said. "Something of yours before 
 you go. The scarlet feather!" 
 
 She tore it from her hat and gave it to him. Then he went 
 to the door and opened it.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE UNKNOWN WARBIOR 
 
 IT was the morning of November 11, 1920, the anniversary 
 of the Armistice, the day of the burial of the Unknown 
 Warrior. 
 
 Millie, who was to watch the procession with Henry, was 
 having breakfast with Victoria in her bedroom. Last night 
 Victoria had given a dinner-party to celebrate her engagement, 
 and she had insisted that Millie should sleep there "the party 
 would be late, a little dancing afterwards, and no one is so 
 important for the success of the whole affair as you are, my 
 Millie/' 
 
 Victoria, sitting up in her four-poster in a lace cap and purple 
 kimono, was very fine indeed. She felt fine; she held an imagi- 
 nary reception, feeling, she told Millie, exactly like Teresia 
 Tallien, whose life she had just been reading, so she said to 
 Millie. 
 
 "Not at all the person to feel like," said Millie, "just before 
 you're married/' 
 
 "If you're virtuous," said Victoria, "and are never likely 
 to be anything else to the end of your days it is rather a luxury 
 to imagine yourself grand, beautiful and wicked/' 
 
 "You have got on rather badly with Tallien," said Millie, 
 "and you wouldn't have liked Barras any better." 
 
 "Well, I needn't worry about it," said Victoria, '^because 
 I've got Mereward, who is quite another sort of man." She 
 drank her tea, and then reflectively added: "Do you realize, 
 Millie, darling, that you've stuck to me a whole eight months, 
 and that we're more 'stuck 5 so to speak than we were at the 
 beginning ?" 
 
 "Is that very marvellous?" asked Millie. 
 
 "Marvellous! Why, of course it is! You don't realize how 
 
 328
 
 THE UNKNOWN WAERIOK 329 
 
 many I had before you came. The longest any one stayed was 
 a fortnight." 
 
 "I've very nearly departed on one or two occasions/' said 
 Millie. 
 
 "Yes, I know yon have." Victoria settled herself luxuriously. 
 "Just give me that paper, darling, before you go and some of 
 the letters. Pick out the nicest ones. You've seen me dear, 
 at a most turbulent point of my existence, but I'm safe in har- 
 bour now, and even if it seems a little dull I daresay I shall 
 be able to scrape up a quarrel or two with Mereward before 
 long." Millie gave her the papers; she caught her hand. 
 "You've been happier these last few weeks, dear, haven't you? 
 I'd hate to think that you're still worrying. . . . That that 
 man. ..." She paused. 
 
 "Oh, you needn't be afraid to speak of him." Millie sat 
 down on the edge of the bed. "I don't know whether I'm 
 happier exactly, but I'm quiet again and that seems to be 
 almost all I care about now. If s curious though how life 
 arranges things for you. I don't think that I should ever have 
 come out of that miserable loneliness if I hadn't met some one 
 a woman whose case was far worse than mine. There's 
 always some one deeper down, I expect, however deep one gets. 
 She took me out of myself. I seem somehow suddenly to have 
 grown up. Do you know, Victoria, when I look back to that 
 first day that I came here I see myself as such a child that I 
 wonder I went out alone." 
 
 Victoria nodded her head. 
 
 "Yes, you are older. You've grown into a woman in these 
 months ; we've all noticed it. ' 
 
 Millie got up. She stretched out her arms, laughing. "Oh ! 
 life's wonderful! How any one can be bored I can't think. 
 The things that go on and the people and these wonderful 
 times ! Bunny hasn't killed any of that for me. He's increased 
 it, I think. I see now what things other people have to stand. 
 That woman, Victoria, that I spoke of just now, her life! 
 Why, I'm only at the beginning at the beginning of myself, 
 at the beginning of the world, at the beginning of everything! 
 What a time to be alive in !" 
 
 Victoria sighed. "When you talk like that, dear, and look
 
 330 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 like that it makes me wish I wasn't going to marry Mereward. 
 It's like closing a door. But the enchantment is over for me. 
 Money can't bring it back nor love not when the youth's gone. 
 Hold on to it, Millie your youth, my dear. Some people keep 
 it for ever. I think you will." 
 
 Millie came and flung her arms round Victoria. 
 
 "You've been a dear to me, you have. Don't think I didn't 
 notice how good and quiet you were when all that trouble with 
 Bunny was going on. ... I love you and wish you the happiest 
 married life any woman could ever have." 
 
 A tear trickled down Victoria's fat cheek. "Stay with me, 
 Millie, until you're married. Don't leave us. We shall need 
 your youth and loveliness to lighten us all up. Promise." 
 
 And Millie promised. 
 
 In the hall she met Ellen. 
 
 "Ellen, come with my brother and me to see the procession." 
 
 Ellen regarded her darkly. 
 
 "No, thank you," she said. 
 
 Then as she was turning away, "Have you forgiven me?" 
 
 "Forgiven you?" 
 
 "Yes, for what I did. Finding out about Mr. Baxter." 
 
 "There was nothing to forgive," said Millie. "You did what 
 you thought was right." 
 
 "Eight !" answered Ellen. "Always people like you are think- 
 ing of what is right. I did what I wanted to because I wanted 
 to." She came close to Millie. "I'm glad though I saved you. 
 You've been kind to me after your own lights. It isn't your 
 fault that you don't understand me. I only want you to prom- 
 ise me one thing. If you're ever grateful to me for what I did 
 be kind to the next misshapen creature you come across. Be 
 tolerant. There's more in the world than your healthy mind 
 will ever realize." She went slowly up the stairs and out of the 
 girl's sight. 
 
 Millie soon forgot her; meeting Henry at Panton Street, 
 pointing out to him that he must wear to-day a black tie, dis- 
 cussing the best place for the procession, all these things were 
 more important than Ellen. 
 
 Just before they left the room she looked at him. "Henry," 
 she said, "whafs happened to you?"
 
 THE UNKNOWN WARRIOR 331 
 
 "Happened?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes. You're looking as though you'd just received a thou- 
 sand pounds from a noble publisher for your first book both 
 solemn and sanctified." 
 
 "I'll tell you all about it one day," he said. He told her 
 something then, of the rescue, the staying of Christina in his 
 room, the arrival of the uncle. 
 
 He spoke of it all lightly. "He was a nice fellow," he said, 
 "like a pirate. He said the mother wouldn't trouble us again 
 and she hasn't. He carried Christina off to his hotel. He asked 
 me to dinner then, but I didn't go ... yes, and they left for 
 Denmark two days later. . . . No, I didn't see them off. I 
 didn't see them again." 
 
 Millie looked in her brother's eyes and asked no more ques- 
 tions. But Henry had grown in stature; he was hobbledehoy 
 no longer. More than ever they needed one another now, and 
 more than ever they were independent of all the world. 
 
 They found a place in the crowd just inside the Admiralty 
 Arch. It was a lovely autumn day, the sunlight soft and mel- 
 low, the grey patterns of the Arch rising gently into the blue, 
 the people stretched like long black shadows beneath the walls. 
 
 When the procession came there was reverence and true 
 pathos. For a moment the complexities, turmoils, selfishnesses, 
 struggles that the War had brought in its train were drawn 
 into one simple issue, one straightforward emotion. Men might 
 say that that emotion was sentimental, but nothing so sincerely 
 felt by so many millions of simple people could be called by 
 that name. The coffin passed with the admirals and the gen- 
 erals; there was a pause and then the crowd broke into the re- 
 leased space, voices were raised, there was laughter and shouting, 
 every one pushing here and there, multitudes trying to 3scape 
 from the uneasy emotion that had for a moment caught them, 
 multitudes too remembering some one lost for a moment but 
 loved for ever, typified by that coffin, that tin hat, that little 
 wailing tune. 
 
 Millie's hand was through Henry's arm. "Wait a moment," 
 she said. "There'll be the pause at eleven o'clock. Let's stay 
 here and listen for it." 
 
 They stood on the curb while the crowd, noisy, cheerful,
 
 332 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 exaggerated, swirled back and forwards around them. Sud- 
 denly eleven o'clock boomed from Big Ben. Before the strokes 
 were completed there was utter silence; as though a sign had 
 flashed from the sky, the waters of the world were frozen into 
 ice. The omnibuses in Trafalgar Square stayed where they 
 were; every man stood his hat in his hand. The women held 
 their children with a warning clasp. The pigeons around the 
 Arch rose fluttering and crying into the air, the only sound in 
 all the world. The two minutes seemed eternal. Tears came 
 into Millie's eyes, hesitated, then rolled down her cheeks. For 
 that instant it seemed that the solution of the earth's trouble 
 must be so simple. All men drawn together like this by some 
 common impulse that they all could understand, that they 
 would all obey, that would force them to forget their individual 
 selfishnesses, but would leave them, in their love for one an- 
 other, individuals as they had never been before. "Oh ! it can 
 come! It must come!" Millie's heart whispered. "God grant 
 that I may live until that day." 
 
 The moment was over; the world went on again, but there 
 were many there who would remember.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE BEGINNING 
 
 THEY were to lunch with Peter in Marylebone. Millie had 
 some commission to execute for Victoria and told Henry 
 that she would meet him in Peter's room. 
 
 When she was gone he felt for a moment lost. He had been 
 in truth dreaming ever since that last sight of Christina. He 
 had no impulse to follow her he knew that in that he had been 
 wise but he was busy enthroning her so that she would always 
 remain with every detail of every incident connected with her 
 until he died. 
 
 In this perhaps he was sentimental; nevertheless clearer- 
 sighted than you would suppose. He knew that he had all his 
 life before him, that many would come into it and would go out 
 again, that there would be passions and desires satisfied and 
 unsatisfied. But he also knew that nothing again would have 
 in it quite the unselfish devotion that his passion for Christina 
 had had. The first love is not the only love, but it is often 
 the only love into which self does not enter. 
 
 His feet led him to Peter Street. The barrows were there 
 with their apples and oranges and old clothes and boots and 
 shoes and gimcrack china. The old woman with the teary eye 
 was there, the policeman good-humouredly watching. It was 
 all as it had been on that first afternoon now so long, long, 
 long ago ! 
 
 Henry looked at the yard, at the little blistered door, at the 
 balcony. No sign of life in any of them. 
 
 The Peter Street romance had just begun, but it had passed 
 away from Peter Street. 
 
 He walked to Marylebone in a dream, and when he was there 
 he had to pull himself together to listen with sympathy to 
 
 333
 
 334 THE YOUNG ENCHANTED 
 
 Peter's excitement about this new monthly paper of which Peter 
 was to be editor, the paper that was to transform the world. 
 
 He left Peter and Millie talking at the table, went to the 
 window and looked out. As he saw the people passing up and 
 down below them of a sudden he loved them all. 
 
 The events of the last month came crowding to him every- 
 thing that had happened: the first sight of Christina in the 
 Circus, the first visit to Buncombe, the Hill Street library and 
 his love for it, his interviews with Mrs. Tenssen, the day when 
 he had given Christina luncheon in the little Spanish restaurant, 
 Duncombe and the garden and Lady Bell-Hall, his struggles 
 with his novel, his recovery of the old Edinburgh life, Sir Walter 
 and his smile, the row with Tom Duncombe, the meals and the 
 theatres and the talks with Peter. Millie's trouble and Peter's 
 wife, his fight with Baxter, Duncombe's last talk with him and 
 his death, the last time with Christina, to-day's Unknown War- 
 rior yes, and smaller things than these: sunsets and sunrises, 
 people passing in the street, the wind in the Duncombe or- 
 chard, books new and old, his little room in Panton Street, the 
 vista of Piccadilly Circus on a sunlit afternoon, all London and 
 beyond it, England whom he loved so passionately, and beyond 
 her the world to its furthest and darkest fastnesses. What a 
 time to be alive, what a time to be young in, the enchantment, 
 the miraculous enchantment of life ! 
 
 "I a-m lie attesting sympathy (shall I make my list of things 
 in the house and skip the house that supports them?). 
 
 "I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to b& 
 the poet of wickedness also. 
 
 "My gait is no fault-finder's or rejector's gait, I moisten the 
 roots of all that has grown. 
 
 
 
 "This minute that comes to me over the past decillions. 
 
 "There is no better than it and now. What behaved well iri 
 the past or behaves well to-day is not such a wonder. 
 
 "The wonder is always and always how there can be a mean 
 man or an infidel'*
 
 THE BEGrOTING 335 
 
 He turned round to speak to Peter, then saw that he had his 
 hand on Millie's shoulder, she seated at the table, looking up 
 and smiling at him. 
 
 Millie and Peter? Why not? Only that would he needed to 
 complete his happiness, his wonderful, miraculous happiness. 
 
 THE END
 
 Date Due 
 
 T8ECI 
 
 NOV 3 
 OCT ? 
 
 PRINTED IN U.S.*. CAT. NO. 24 161
 
 om the 
 o/ 
 
 ibnisohCa 
 
 MILTON 
 
 1401 BELFAST DBIVE 
 
 ANGELES, :-: CALIF.