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  “Mr. Lambert hasn’t come with you, then?”

  “No,” said Adelaide.

  Alice nodded vigorously.

  “I must say, dear, I think that’s very wise. Freddy hasn’t come either.” (Adelaide appreciated her cousin’s generosity afresh.) “I must say,” elaborated Alice, “I think it’s so much nicer—I don’t mean nicer, I mean more suitable—if it’s just ourselves.”

  “Much more suitable.”

  “It’s the first death we’ve ever had in our family,” pursued Alice seriously. “Not counting grandparents, of course. Now if you’ve finished your tea you shall see Aunt Bertha, unless … unless you want to see Uncle Will first.”

  Adelaide straightened her back.

  “Where is he?”

  “In the corner bedroom, dear. Shall I come with you?”

  “No,” said Adelaide.

  But with unusual demonstrativeness she kissed Alice’s cheek; and with the warmth of that contact on her lips, walked slowly across the landing.

  4

  The room was full of flowers—no wreaths as yet, but bouquets of white phlox and carnations, their scent strong on the air; more garden scents came in through the open windows, round the edges of the blinds; and since these too were white, the room wasn’t dark, but only pleasantly shady, a cool place in which to lie.

  Adelaide braced herself a moment, then walked steadily to the bed and drew down the sheet. Her father’s pale, composed face was in no way terrifying or unfamiliar: as Adelaide gazed on it what struck her most of all was its expression of profound indifference. And even that, she presently realized—for she stood there some time—was an illusion, at most a carelessly-left mark of the soul’s passing; for the conviction grew upon her that wherever else her father was, he was not there. He had gone.

  Adelaide drew up the sheet again and knelt down at the bedside. The action was purely formal, but she felt it could not be incorrect: Mr. Culver had always been a stickler for the conventions, and though Adelaide could hardly believe, after seeing that face, that he cared for them now, still one never knew. At least her prayer was sincere.

  “O Lord, Who knowest the secrets of all our hearts, my father is in Thy safe hands. If I have been hard and undutiful, pardon and soften me. If I am acting a deceitful part”—here Adelaide paused, and after a moment’s thought found she could do no better than repeat herself—“Thou knowest the secrets of our hearts. Amen. Amen.”

  She rose almost cheerfully; for the thought that the Lord knew all about Gilbert and herself, without its having to be explained to Him, was a sudden and a great comfort.

  5

  The three days which elapsed before the funeral were varied by many visits of condolence. The duty of receiving them fell chiefly upon Adelaide and her aunt: for Mrs. Culver remained in her room, with Treff in constant attendance, and Alice went back to her babies. Adelaide found the exchange of platitudes easy enough, though wearisome; whatever curiosity the ladies of Farnham might feel about her, convention forbade its unleashing; convention also very usefully defined her own rôle as the daughter of a bereaved house. Perhaps she should have spent more time with Mrs. Culver, but the latter showed little desire for her daughter’s company: the calls on her self-control were so many that where Adelaide was concerned it broke down, allowing all the old grievances to find outlet. After the first moments of natural emotion they had drawn apart.

  “Mamma,” said Adelaide gently, on the second morning, “what is Treff going to do?”

  “To do?” repeated Mrs. Culver. “What do you mean?”

  “What profession is he going to adopt? For I suppose he’s down from Cambridge?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did he take a degree?”

  “Of course. You’ve never done Treff justice,” said Mrs. Culver, in an irritated voice. “He’s an extremely clever boy. And what is more exceptional, he’s thoroughly unselfish. With Treff, his mother has always come first.”

  Ignoring the hit at herself, Adelaide reverted to her original question.

  “But what is he going to do, Mamma? What did Papa expect for him?”

  “Your poor father had no time to expect anything. If he’d lived, of course,” added Mrs. Culver illogically, “Treff would have gone into the family business. That I do know. But now as things are so altered, and I must say Mr. Blore hasn’t at all come forward in the way one would expect, Treff has decided against it. And I thoroughly agree with him.”

  Adelaide saw no reason to oppose this opinion, and waited with all the more impatience for the arrival of Mr. Hambro. He was, she knew, her father’s executor; neither Mrs. Culver nor Treff had said anything to her about their financial position; Adelaide had no expectations for herself, but did not see why she should be kept in ignorance. Soon after her uncle arrived she tackled him alone, and he gave her a very plain statement of the situation.

  “Everything goes to your mother, and if she buys an annuity she’ll get about three hundred a year. This house is freehold, and she could of course sell it, but I hope she won’t. In Farnham, on three hundred, she’ll do very well.”

  Adelaide nodded. Then she said baldly:—

  “Uncle Ham, what’s going to happen to Treff?”

  At once his expression changed. It became extraordinarily bored.

  “My dear girl, I don’t know. He’s very thoroughly educated, so all careers are open to him. He appears to have no inclination towards any.”

  Adelaide sighed.

  “I wish I knew what Papa thought.”

  “I believe your father was considering the Church.”

  “Uncle Ham!”

  “Why not? He’d make a very good pale young curate,” said Mr. Hambro cheerfully. “In any case, there’s no need for you to feel responsible for him.” He considered her pleasantly. “And how are you, my dear? You look to me like a contented woman.”

  “I am,” said Adelaide. She hesitated; her uncle’s kind, quizzical face inspired confidence; for the moment she was on the verge of opening her heart to him; but just then another caller arrived, and she had to go.

  It was Mr. Vaneck. Adelaide could not have been twenty-four hours in Farnham without hearing his name, and had even felt a slight curiosity about him; but just then he was an interruption, and she received him almost with brusqueness. Mrs. Hambro immediately left them to go to her husband, and for a moment Adelaide could really think of nothing to say. Mr. Vaneck sat opposite her, large, ponderous, very well-groomed, apparently in the same case. Their silence became noticeable. Adelaide racked her brains to remember what she had last said, and unconsciously repeated herself.

  “I’m afraid Mamma is not able to see anybody; but she is so grateful for everyone’s kindness.”

  “Your father will be a great loss to the neighbourhood.”

  Adelaide gave him a quick glance. He too had repeated himself, and this time she realized it. She said frankly:—

  “Did I say that before?”

  “As a matter of fact, you did. It’s very natural.”

  “I have said it a great many times,” admitted Adelaide.

  “One does. What else is there to say?”

  “Oh, nothing.” She reflected. “Yet I think it helps, to let conventions … float one over the bad patches.”

  “We’ve learned to handle death very competently,” agreed Mr. Vaneck. “Dogs, for example, have been known to starve to death on their master’s graves.”

  It took Adelaide a few minutes to recollect why her mother’s seclusion in a comfortable bedroom was really the more admirable behaviour.

  “Dogs don’t know about the immortality of the soul.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Vaneck, “but you weren’t speaking of religion, you were speaking of the conventions. The distinction was as clear in your mind as it is in mine. Now convention tells me that I’ve stayed long enough, and that’s a very good thing, for you might otherwise find it difficult to dismiss me.”

  He stood up, easily, li
ke a man used to the control of all occasions. Adelaide walked out with him to the hall and opened the door; as the sunlight fell full on her face he added:—

  “You don’t get enough fresh air.”

  “I go in the garden.”

  “You should walk, or ride. Good day,” said Mr. Vaneck.

  6

  On the morning of the funeral Alice and Freddy arrived early from Surbiton, bringing the Baker flowers with them. The hall was already full of such tributes, which Alice immediately set about reviewing.

  “Seventeen,” she counted approvingly. “If you don’t mind, Addie, I think we should make sure all the cards are quite firm, because they do so tend to come off.”

  Adelaide plunged her fingers into a great circle of arums, and felt for the pasteboard.

  “This one’s all right.”

  “It would be,” said Alice, “it’s Mr. Vaneck’s. Mrs. Blake’s is hanging by a thread.”

  They went methodically from wreath to wreath, tightening and re-knotting; Adelaide observed that the Hambros had sent roses, the Bakers lilies, the little Bakers—Alice always did this sort of thing beautifully—a simple bunch of garden flowers. Her own card, on a sheaf of iris, bore her own name alone, for on this minor point her conscience had suddenly pricked her.

  “I like the Howards’,” remarked Alice.

  It was like working in a hot-house: the strong scents gave Adelaide a headache. And she was haunted by a memory she could not quite recapture—something that had happened a long time ago, her cousin there too, sharing the same sort of task.… She said suddenly:—

  “Alice, do you remember once, in Kensington, sorting out Treff’s toys? And tying cards on them?”

  “Oh, Addie!”

  For the first time since her home-coming, Adelaide burst into tears. She wept and wept, with Alice’s arms around her; she wept uncontrollably, and not for her father; but because time passed, and young girls grew older, and because days gone by would come no more.

  CHAPTER VIII

  1

  Although, as she told Gilbert, Adelaide had not expected her family to show much curiosity about her, the indifference she actually met was so complete as to be startling. The change from London to Farnham had no doubt much to do with it, and the mere passage of time; in seven years Mrs. Culver had gathered a new set of interests, a new series of memories, in which her daughter played no part, and Adelaide was a stranger at Platt’s End as she could never have been a stranger in Kensington or Bayswater. She saw, moreover, that in a way her return had been a relief, as showing that she was still presentable, and not in want; nothing need be done about her; but neither her mother nor Treff wished to probe this appearance, in case what lay beneath it should be less reassuring. All their future plans excluded her; it was only by chance she learned what those plans were.

  Walking in the garden, the day after the funeral, Adelaide saw Treff at the bow-window of the drawing-room, and to make conversation, as she might have done with an acquaintance, began to praise Platt’s End.

  “What a pretty house this is, Treff! So beautifully sunny!”

  Treff looked pleased.

  “That’s what everyone says. And it’s a convenient size. It ought to be quite easy to sell.”

  “To sell?” Adelaide looked at him in astonishment. “Does Mamma mean to sell it?”

  “If we go abroad.”

  “I didn’t know you thought of going abroad!” Adelaide hesitated. “Have you talked to Uncle Ham about it? I dare say Mamma needs a change—”

  “I’m taking her to Brighton for a week the day after to-morrow. But we shall probably decide to live in Florence. Italy’s cheaper than England, and more agreeable.”

  Treff said all this rather rapidly, as though admitting Adelaide’s right to the information, but no more. He was obviously not admitting any discussion. As he saw Adelaide about to speak again he added pointedly:—

  “I’m perfectly capable of looking after Mamma’s affairs, and as a matter of fact, Florence was her own idea.”

  Adelaide very much doubted it. Mrs. Culver’s liking for Platt’s End was incontestable, she had thoroughly settled herself there, and she was fifty-two. Her devotion to Treff, also incontestable, might well persuade her to Italy—or to the North Pole—but how would she bear the transplanting to alien soil? Though Florence was known to be full of English tea-shops, one could not spend one’s life drinking tea.…

  With a disturbed face Adelaide went into the house and up to her mother’s room. She did not for a moment imagine that her advice would be welcome, but the Hambros had gone, and there was no one else except herself qualified to speak on the matter. Adelaide wondered whether the Hambros knew any more than she did, and decided they did not; the mere rumour of such an upheaval (the first members of the family to settle abroad) would have found Alice on the spot.

  Adelaide tapped, and went in. Mrs. Culver was seated before her bureau, going through the drawers; she often did this, it was a favourite occupation with her, but for a moment Adelaide saw it as the first step in the dismantling of Platt’s End. She said impulsively, “Mamma, Treff tells me you’re thinking of selling this house and going to live in Italy!”

  Mrs. Culver turned, her face at once setting in obstinate, almost angry lines.

  “Have you any objection?”

  “No, of course not.” Adelaide moved a step or two nearer, and tried her best to make her voice affectionate. “Only it would be such a very great change, and I thought you liked Farnham so much—Mamma, all I want to say is, don’t agree to anything … final just now, while you’re still upset. Don’t sell the house. I know it’s Treff’s idea—”

  “And a very good one,” said Mrs. Culver.

  “But you haven’t had time to consider it—for I’m sure Papa never thought of living abroad. It’s only come up in these last few days. Why, what would you do in Florence?”

  “I should make a home for my son.”

  “And what would Treff do? Really, Mamma, I’m sure it would be the worst thing possible for him, to live there with no occupation, no career—”

  “That’s just where you’re mistaken,” interrupted Mrs. Culver. “It’s on account of Treff’s career that we’re going.” She paused impressively. “He has decided to become an art-expert.”

  For a moment Adelaide could not speak. She was too astonished, too indignant, and finally, too much amused. At least he hadn’t the effrontery to tell me that! she thought. Nor Papa … I wonder if he’ll tell Uncle Ham? … But how clever of Treff to light on so shadowy, so aloof a career! How beautifully it would cover his do-nothing habits! And how well it would sound on his mother’s lips! Adelaide had heard enough of art-experts from Henry to form a very low opinion of them.

  It also occurred to her, as she stood there reflecting, that the Culver line was taking an unexpected turn. Grandfather Culver had been a prosperous publisher, Grandfather Trefusis a prosperous land-agent; behind them busy generations of the same ilk had carried on the country’s trade, filled the country’s minor professions, for as long as their records existed. Now she, Adelaide, had married an artist, and Treff was to make art his precarious career. Adelaide contemplated this decadence of a sound commercial line with genuine misgiving. Where had it begun? Not, surely, in the Trefusis strain: look at Aunt Ham and Alice and the twins, all sound as bells, their feet firmly planted on solid middle-class ground, with never an æsthetic idea in their heads; but on the Culver side there was—well, there was Belle Burnett; and in Mr. Culver himself a failure of practical energy, Adelaide suspected, as well as a weak heart, had been responsible for his early retirement. Adelaide began to feel the whole problem too much for her. She said rather wearily, “Very well, Mamma, I hope whatever you decide will turn out satisfactorily. Treff also said you were going to Brighton on Thursday; so I shall leave to-morrow.”

  To her extreme surprise, Mrs. Culver turned on her.

  “No doubt you’ll do exactly as you please, as you
always have done—without consideration for me or anyone else. It’s fortunate I have a good son. Treff doesn’t go off and leave his mother in her grief!”

  Adelaide was taken aback afresh. The Brighton plan had been made without any reference to her, and quite naturally, but no hint had been thrown out that her company would be acceptable; indeed, she was quite sure it would not. However, she made haste to offer it.

  “I’ll certainly come to Brighton if you wish it, Mamma.”

  “If I wish it!” repeated Mrs. Culver resentfully. “It’s no good saying that now, my dear. When have you ever paid any attention to your mother’s wishes?”

  Adelaide considered. She wanted to answer fairly, as much for her own satisfaction as her mother’s.

  “For about twenty years I paid every attention to them.”

  “Because you had to! But you were always—oh, I don’t know—critical of me. You were never a proper daughter to me as Alice was to her mother. The whole house was run for you—”

  “No,” said Adelaide quietly. “The house was run for you and Papa. I dare say that was quite right. And there was a daughter’s place in it which I was to fill, whether I fitted it or not.”

  “I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”

  “I mean that I was often extremely unhappy, and you never even noticed it. But there’s no use talking, Mamma. Shall I come to Brighton?”

  “When Treff has made all the arrangements? Why should you?”

  “Because I thought you wanted me.”

  “I want nothing but the love and respect to which I’m entitled,” said Mrs. Culver.

  She pulled out a box of gloves and began sorting them with quick, angry movements. Adelaide went away.

  2

  Looking back afterwards on this period, this interlude, Adelaide saw it marked by a series of dialogues. There had been no family discussion, very little general conversation; she had talked to one person after the other, alone, the impulse coming always from her side—with one exception. Her last conversation was with Mr. Vaneck, and initiated by him.