House of Glass (Maggy)

HOUSE OF GLASS Sara Seale

Maggy was young, alone in the world after her father's death, untrained and too inexperienced to make much of a way in life; although she had a job of sorts, as companion/dogsbody to a tyrannical old lady, life did not seem to be holding out much of a future for her. Garth Shelton, years older than Maggy, crippled and embittered, was indifferent to anything that life might have in store for him. All the same he was touched by young Maggy's plight - and in a quixotic fit he proposed marriage to her as the one way in which she could escape. And so began their strange life together - a marriage that was no marriage, between two people who might yet come to realise their growing feelings for each other, if only Maggy could forget the one barrier to Garth's loving her - his former love, the elusive and lovely Sabrina.

CHAPTER I THE hour of relaxation was almost upon the Imperial Hotel. Lights sprang up in the gaunt building; soon the residents would settle down to their cocktails, their bridge, and music in the Palm Court. Along the windy terrace overlooking the sea, only a few hardy spirits were left. Old Colonel Lamb was already collecting his rugs and air cushions, and Admiral Beading concluded the last of his breathing exercises. A girl at the far end of the terrace lingered, her arms resting on the stone parapet, staring motionless out to sea, and from his wheelchair Garth Shelton watched her, wondering wearily what she thought about as she gazed ahead, so still and for so long. It was nearly dark, and she turned suddenly, with a suggestion of guilt in her movements, and began to, walk back along the terrace. "Good-night, Mr. Shelton," she said as she passed the wheelchair. "Good-night, Maggy." The soft, shoulder-length hair was whipped round her pale face by the wind as she smiled at him shyly, and he wondered idly why she always looked different at this hour of the day. At the end of the terrace she met Doolan coming to wheel in his master's chair. "You're wanted, miss," he said, his long Irish upper lip pulled down with more disapproval than usual. "Oh, dear! It must be later than I thought," she said, and began to hurry. "Past six o'clock, and black as the inside of a cow it'll be this night," he grumbled, but Maggy had started to run.

The overheated rooms of the hotel seemed stifling after the raw cold of the October evening. Maggy found herself waylaid by one member of the staff after another, all with the same message. "Mrs. Smythe-Gibson has been asking for you for the last twenty minutes." Borne upwards in the lift, she was surrounded by her own disconcerting reflection in the mirror-lined compartment, and caught her breath like a child. This was not Maggy, the paid companion, who stared back at her under the bright lights. This was the Maggy Mrs. Smythe-Gibson disliked. Hair wild and unconfined, eyes - the clear untroubled eyes of the delicate- sighted - still bright with that hour's release on the terrace. "Second floor," chanted the lift-boy, and she scuttled through the gates like a small scared animal. The Imperial's appointments were very magnificent. Everywhere luxury swamped the beholder. Carpets so thick that, they dragged at the feet, central heating so hot that the air almost shimmered. The food was superb, with special attention paid to the diets of the clientele of a Spa hotel, and the service was excellent. Only the very rich could afford to stay at the Imperial. As she opened the bedroom door after a guilty knock, Maggy thought, not for the first time, how well her employer fitted all this glittering opulence. Mrs. Smythe-Gibson was a massive woman in her middle fifties. Her fat little fingers were loaded with jewels, and she was at that moment fixing a diamond clip in the brassy waves of her too-golden hair. She had just completed her elaborate evening make-up, and the dressingtable at which she sat was loaded with the formidable array of cosmetics without which she never travelled. Vast pots of cream, cut-

glass bottles of lotion, six shades of powder, and all the attendant array of rouge, lipsticks, mascara, eye-shadow, nail varnish in every make and colour. It was a nightmare packing them up so that they didn't break. The diamond clip in place she leant forward to peer in the mirror and pluck a hair from a mole with a pair of tweezers. "Where have you been?" she demanded as soon as Maggy had shut the door. "I've had the whole staff looking for you. You know perfectly well that I need you at this hour." "I was on the terrace," said Maggy. "I'm always on the terrace after tea." "Trying to scrape acquaintance with that Shelton man, I suppose." Mrs. Smythe-Gibson turned round to look at her. The cold protuberant eyes surveyed the girl calculatingly, and active dislike came into them. "What do you think you look like?" she said. "Hair all over the place, and where are your glasses? I've told you time and again not to take them off." Maggy looked guilty. "I only need them for reading," she protested. "And hardly for that now. They said my sight would grow stronger as I grew older, and I would probably be able to do without them altogether." "Nonsense! That's just sheer vanity. Go and put them on. You know you're always mislaying them otherwise, just when I require some service. You'd think" - the petulant mouth turned down at the corners - "I'd be entided to some consideration after all I've done for you. I

don't know what I pay you for, I'm sure, keeping you here in luxury into the bargain. Was he there?" "Was who there?" asked Maggy, bewildered. "Mr. Shelton, of course. Don't be more half-witted than you need. Or is it just girlish dissembling?" "Oh - yes, he was there," said Maggy wearily. "Did he speak?" "Yes, he spoke." "What did he say?" "He said 'Good-night, Maggy,'" Mrs. Smythe-Gibson's eyes narrowed. "Oh, he said 'Good-night, Maggy,' did he?" she mimicked. "Are you trying to be impertinent, my good girl?" Maggy felt bewildered again. "No," she said. "You asked me what he said, and that's all he said. That's all he generally ever does say." Mrs. Smythe-Gibson's heavily powdered face creased in a contemptuous smile, and her ill-temper seemed suddenly to vanish. "Poor man," she said complacently. "Such a sad thing, that accident. They say he will never walk again, though I see no reason why that should make him so disagreeable. I've asked him time and again to a drink, but he always refuses. Such a distinguished-looking man, and

of course that place in Ireland. I've always wanted to visit Ireland. Castle Floyne — it sounds so feudal." "Castle doesn't mean anything in Ireland," said Maggy unguardedly. "It's just a term for a large house. There are dozens of castles everywhere.' "How should you know, you ignorant little chit?" her employer snapped. "He told me," said Maggy simply. Mr. Shelton was an old grievance. He had arrived at the Imperial a few days after Maggy and her employer, and from the first had resolutely held himself apart from the other residents, and who should blame him, thought Maggy, thinking of the collection of retired generals and wealthy old women who discussed their complaints, bickered, and discussed their complaints again. In that assortment of humanity, with nothing more seriously wrong with them than gout or rheumatism, Garth Shelton was a very sick man.' He spent most of the day if it was fine on the terrace in his wheelchair, and retired to his rooms for the rest of the evening as soon as it was dark. Mrs. Smythe-Gibson alone of the residents had persisted in an attempt to break down his reserve, and remained apparently impervious to his rudeness. But Mrs. Smythe-Gibson was a vulgarian Juggernaut. Money and a complacent husband had bought her most things, and now in the freedom of widowhood she recognised no rebuffs. She favoured Maggy with the travesty of a roguish smile. "So he does sometimes say more than 'good-night, Maggy,'" she said, with a return to good humour. "Try and get him to come out of his

shell for a change. Or a little expedition - that man of his could lift him into the car." "He doesn't notice me," said Maggy. "He doesn't really notice anyone." Mrs. Smythe-Gibson glanced at her sharply, then compressed her full, .rouged lips. Exasperating child! Maggy was in one of her vague moods. "Get me into my gown," she snapped, "and then go and do something to your own appearance, for goodness' sake ! And remember your glasses. At least if they're on your nose you won't lose them."

Maggy liked her bedroom. Certainly it was very small, being only the dressing-room adjoining Mrs. Smythe-Gibson's suite and was not originally intended for sleeping in. The furniture consisted mainly of a vast masculine compactum and a fixed basin. The management had added a small divan bed for Maggy, and she had to get out of bed to turn out the light, but, as Mrs. Smythe-Gibson justly observed, why pay extra for another room when she had booked a suite in any case? Besides, the girl was at hand if she was wanted in the night, which was often the case. Mrs. Smythe-Gibson, unable to sleep after a heavy and too rich meal, required to be read to, massaged, or even just a recipient for complaints. But the hour before dinner, when Mrs. Smythe-Gibson had gone down for her ritual of sherry, was different. Then the room was Maggy's own. She could sing and talk to herself without fear of interruption. She could even lock the door, a safeguard which she didn't dare indulge in at night.

She kicked off her shoes, bounced happily on to the bed, and was soon lost in a daydream, or rather a continuance of the daydreams she had each evening on the terrace. She would imagine some miracle that would release her from her present bondage; perhaps someone would want to marry her or, better still, A kindly stranger would offer her a new and impossibly congenial job, for Maggy as yet only dreamed of marriage as a means to' freedom. She sighed. Mrs. Smythe.-Gibson's paid companion had little chance of establishing a personality of her own. True, there had been that nervous young man with the stammer who had held her hand at Torquay last summer, but that had only been because none of the other girls would look at him. And there was the elderly colonel who pinched her behind, but he did that to all women under forty, and Maggy had wanted to kick him. But the; women were worse. They despised and made-use of you at the same time, and they took advantage of your youth and your position to work off their own disappointments and ill- temper. Maggy thought she would like to work for a man. She was used to men, for she had never known her mother, and her father had occupied the whole of her affections and indeed the whole of her short life. The daydream, as it always did, slipped back into the past. She imagined herself back in the big, ugly rectory on the north side of London, with its sparsely furnished, draughty rooms and its air of having collected all the fogs in London in its grey and smoky walls. She supposed it must have been a depressing house, but she had never found it so. Her father had a gift for happiness which enriched the most uncongenial surroundings. There had never been much money, for it was a poor living; the rectory had been far too big and expensive to run, but it had a warmth quite independent of its many discomforts. And there was Ellen, who had ruled them all, who alternately scolded and petted, and who did battle with bills and tradesmen and the practicalities of life which seemed for ever to elude her unworldly master.

Ellen had come for the month when Maggy was born, and stayed on to take charge of the distraught household after the death of the baby's mother. The Crayles had been a devoted couple. Geoffrey Crayle, although his sweetness never became embittered, never got over his wife's death. In later years, he sometimes supposed he should have married again for Maggy's sake, but he never did, and Ellen stayed on and became part of their very bones. Maggy blinked a little as she thought of Ellen now in another job and as thoroughly uprooted as Maggy herself. She had fought that final bout of influenza; with a valiance which never tired, and even when pneumonia set in she had not despaired. But Geoffrey Crayle's overworked nervous system had failed him at last. "I'm sorry, Ellen," he had murmured apologetically, and died. "What's the use!" cried Maggy angrily and aloud, and dug her heels into the bed. What was the use of dwelling on something that was so final and still so recent? Think rather of those annual fortnights at the farm, of the smells and tastes, intoxicating in their novelty, of the sweetness of idle summer days with the frets of the parish far behind them and all the green countryside for their mutual delectation. Then they would stride the Sussex downs together or picnic in some quiet wood while Geoffrey Crayle unfolded impossible plans for Maggy's future. She never went to school. Her father taught her at home in his spare time. Later she went out to classes, and three times a week to the College of Music for piano lessons. "We'll keep the school fees for later on," her father would say, ruffling his daughter's soft brown hair. "Your music must come first, Meg - and study abroad perhaps, when the time comes."

But even then, the young Maggy listening so ardently had known that it would not be so. When the time came, the little store would be gone, robbed little by little to help some needy parishioner or to pay a forgotten bill. And so it was. After all the outstanding bills had been paid, there was nothing in the world left. She smiled as she thought of her father saying so often; "The daughters of clergymen always end up as paid companions. Never become a companion, Meg - it's not even respectable, for your spirit is in subjection, not to God, but to Mammon. You are too pretty for that. You'll marry - but not, I beg you, into the clergy!" Well, here she was, that very thing he had abominated, and Mrs. Smythe-Gibson was Mammon indeed. Useless, grasping, vain, all the things Geoffrey Crayle had least tolerated in life, but what else, thought Maggy, could she have done, at eighteen with no worldly assets and little education? After an upbringing so sheltered, Maggy had shivered in the cold wind of reality and thought herself lucky to encounter Mrs. Smythe-Gibson. Only Ellen had rebelled. "It's never the life for you, Miss Maggy," she had stated. "I know her sort, spending her days in the fleshpots of the world - a Jezebel if ever I saw one. She'll use your youth for her own ends, catching the men with your innocence, for her own left her in the cradle, I shouldn't wonder. And if it isn't that way, then you'll be no better than a ladies' maid and not as well used. Stop awhile with your old Ellen till something else turns up. I have a few pounds saved." Dear Ellen, how good she had been. But she had her own future to think of and she was no longer young. It was a wrench parting from Ellen, and even now, the anxious, disapproving letters still came enquiring for her child's well-being. Maggy smiled a little ruefully. Mrs. Smythe-Gibson's paid companion was not expected to notice

men, much less catch them. That was her own prerogative. But "no better than a ladies' maid and not as well used," in that, at least, Ellen had been right. Maggy had been in Mrs Smythe-Gibson's employ for six months now, during which time they had lived in as many hotels. At first she had been too dazed with grief for her father to notice the encroaching number of duties expected of her. In those early days, Mrs. SmytheGibson had employed a ladies' maid as well as a companion, but she was shrewd enough to see very quickly that Maggy could easily fulfil the functions of the two at half the salary. The maid was dismissed, and Maggy, admitted to personal intimacies of which she had never dreamed, knew her first contempt for human nature. The careful building up of a lost youth seemed to her nauseating. Squeezing that sagging body into corsets that were too small, arranging the dyed hair, watching while cosmetics transformed the puffy face into a travesty of what it had once been, revolted her. And all for what? To hold dubious court for a few hours in the lounge of a luxury hotel and listen to the insincere compliments of the few sycophants which wealth always brought. In the security of her own youth, Maggy despised them all, but she had learnt to hold her tongue. Having been brought up in complete freedom of speech and subject, she found it hard at first to efface her own personality. She was too young and too sincere to guard her speech, but life was teaching her already. She missed her father's companionship so badly that it wasn't difficult to acquire reserve. She was perforce her own companion and her only outlet lay in her private daydreams, those fits of what Mrs. Smythe-Gibson acidly called mooning. Now, with a start, she came out of her dreaming. The hands of her father's shabby little travelling clock stood at five and twenty past seven and Mrs. Smythe-Gibson liked to dine at half past in order to have a long evening for bridge. Maggy leapt off the bed scolding herself aloud. She would be late. Mrs. Smythe- Gibson would hurry

through the meal with outraged greed which would mean indigestion and a wakeful night for Maggy. She had meant to have a bath and make up stories while she wallowed in the still new luxury of really hot water, but there was no time now to do. more than wash her hands and face and change her dress. She scrambled hastily into the only afternoon frock she possessed and fastened it with her usual distaste. Mrs. SmytheGibson, who didn't expect her employee to dress for dinner, had reluctantly bought it for her after surveying her scanty and still adolescent wardrobe with disapproval. It was an ugly dress, beige, a colour which didn't suit her, and it was a little too long and a little too big. Maggy brushed out her hair and grinned at herself in the mirror. At first it had been rather fun to get into the part of paid companion. It was like donning a disguise and there were two Maggys; this one and that other wind-blown Maggy on the terrace. One Maggy would sometimes disconcertingly pop through the other and then Mrs. Smythe-Gibson was displeased and had very early on ridiculed the real Maggy into her proper place. "But which is the real Maggy?" Maggy would sometimes demand of herself, and after six months, she hardly knew. She wasted another five minutes looking for the spectacles which her employer rightly said were always missing unless they were on her nose, and gave one last grimace at the glass. "How Daddy would have laughed," she said, but as they sped down the long-, sound-muted corridor to the stairs, she thought perhaps he might have wept a little.

The next few days were wet and the terrace was deserted. Maggy could no longer lean on the parapet and gaze out to sea, but she put on a mackintosh and walked the length of the parade of the cheerless little East Coast town and enjoyed the sensation of being nearly solitary in the wind and the rain. Once she met the Admiral striding along as if he were pacing the quarter-deck, but for the most part the residents of the Imperial Hotel were snug in their central heating and their bridge. The Admiral didn't recognise her, and they passed each other without greeting. Maggy thought of her fellow guests and wondered if they ever discussed anything else than their health and their bridge postmortems. There were very few young people staying at the Imperial. The season was over, and the wealthy hypochondriacs were dug in for the winter. Maggy wondered how long Mrs. Smythe-Gibson would stay, and supposed it would be until she had the usual quarrel with the management which ended all their sojourns as Mrs. SmytheGibson grew weary of her surroundings. Maggy reflected that it was only too easy to become bored and quarrelsome in such an atmosphere. They all knew too much about each other to remain normal. Sudden friendships, and sudden slights bred in that hot-house air. Colonel Lamb would consider his gout of far more importance than the General's heart, old Mrs. Danvers felt offended that she was never included in dear Mrs. Smythe-Gibson's little parties, and Lady Wing who, like Mrs. Smythe-Gibson, was there to slim, but who, unlike her, rigorously stuck to a starvation diet, held in consequence a jaundiced view of everyone. Only Mr. Shelton managed to hold himself aloof, and that was scarcely good management but sheer indifference. He appeared for lunch, propelling himself skilfully in his wheelchair to his table in the corner, but he never stopped in the .lounge, and acknowledged the daily greetings of his fellow guests. None of them had got further than passing comments on the weather, and Colonel Lamb invariably remarked after the retreating chair: "Uncouth sort of feller, what?"

Maggy wondered if he suffered a great deal of pain. His thin, rather sallow face seemed at times so very drawn and lined, but he was not the sort of person you showed inquisitiveness about. The eyes looked out with such chilling detachment beneath the black, heavy brows, that even friendly interest seemed an impertinence. And nearly always, the dour-faced Doolan was in attendance, isolating his master from the affairs of his fellows. Maggy liked Doolan despite this general disapproval. He re- minded her of Ellen with his uncompromising forthrightness. Doolan loved his master and would be loyal as Ellen had been loyal. Thinking of Ellen and so back again to the rectory, Maggy reached the hotel and went upstairs to take off her wet things. This evening she was in time to make the numerous little preparations before her employer came up for the ritual of dressing. Fresh face-tissues on the dressing table, creams, lotions, eye-bath, the new silver eye-shadow which had come by post that morning unpacked and set out with the old. Then she ran a hot bath, throwing in great handfuls of bath salts which turned the water green. When Mrs. Smythe-Gibson came up she looked pleased. She had won at bridge, and snubbed old Mrs. Danvers whom she disliked, and Maggy's preparations met with her approval. "Lady Wing plays a shocking game," she announced with pleasure. "And there was quite a little jealousy — the dear General's attentions to me, you know. What a fool the woman is." Maggy sighed. This was going to be a confidential evening. Mrs. Smythe-Gibson alternated between treating her companion as a lower servant or the honoured recipient of confidences. Maggy never made up her mind which she disliked most.

"And another thing. Mr. Shelton went through the lounge in his chair, and that gushing Fitzjones woman fawned all over him and he froze her, my dear - absolutely withered her up, and then bowed to me quite graciously as he went out. After all, he must be half her age, silly woman." "But Mr. Shelton must be getting on," said Maggy, surprised as she often was into rash remarks on the subject of ages. Mrs. SmytheGibson's age values were so odd. "Do you call the forties getting on?" her employer said rather sharply, then smiled forgivingly. "Yes, well, to the young and callow I suppose it must seem so. But let me tell you, Maggy, no man amounts to anything before he's forty, though Mr. Shelton might be any age. It's difficult to tell when one never sees him move." Maggy appreciated the shrewdness of this. It was the body far more than the face which gave the clue to age. She looked at the pink, slack flesh under her manipulating fingers and thought: You poor silly thing. As silly as Mrs. Fitzjones in your way, thinking every masculine politeness a confession of admiration. But there was no compassion in her judgment. You didn't pity the Mrs. SmytheGibsons of this world. Their skins were as thick as the layers of foundation cream which covered their faces. On the third rainy evening, Maggy escaped a little earlier than usual. The wind had dropped and the rain drifted across the parade in a thin grey mist from the sea. She met no one until she turned back towards the town again, and reflected with surprise that no one ever seemed to venture out if it was wet. She supposed it wasn't Very inviting unless you had been cooped up all day in a hot hotel, and was surprised when she saw Garth Shelton's wheelchair moving slowly towards her over the shiny asphalt.

He was alone, a tarpaulin cover across his knees, a dripping felt hat pulled well down to meet the upturned collar of his burberry. It was so unusual to see him out without the attendant Doolan that for a moment Maggy hesitated. Then she said good evening and stood awkwardly in his path. She could tell by the way his eyes focused vaguely on her that he had been quite unaware of her and was instantly sorry she had spoken to him. "Hullo!" he said, and added gravely: "Dr. Livingstone, I presume?" Maggy didn't recognise the quotation and only thought he seemed odd - happier somehow, even a little pleased to see her. "I hope it's not running down your neck," she said seriously. "I mean, it does, I find, when one sits and doesn't walk - the rain." She stopped abruptly, wondering if that had been tactless. "Yes, it does, now you come to mention it," he said. "I think I'll turn back." "Would you like —" she began shyly, "I mean I could help push if you're tired." "Thank you," he said unemotionally. "Just that bit into the hotel grounds would be a help." He turned his chair with a quick twist and Maggy fell into step beside him. "So we've both escaped," he remarked suddenly. "You, too?" she asked, surprised. His voice hardened.

"No, there's no real escape for me. But I like to be free of Doolan for a change." "Yes, of course," said Maggy, and was silent. She suddenly longed to ask him if it was true he would never walk again, why he was here in this dreary East Coast spa when he could be safe from prying eyes in that unreal-sounding Irish castle. But these things one could not ask, one couldn't even think them for fear of intruding on his privacy. ' They had passed the row of bathing huts, dismal in the rain and their winter solitude, before he spoke again. "What makes you work for that old woman?" he asked unexpectedly. His voice had a rather attractive harshness as if he were unused to conversation. "It was. my first job," Maggy said and added naively: "You haven't really much choice of jobs when you're quite untrained for anything, you know." "I suppose not," he said indifferently, and appeared to lose interest. They passed the smaller hotels. The Grand with its neat window boxes, the Majestic, its name blazing in neon lights like a picture palace, and wedged between them, those two prim private residential establishments, Beach Towers and Sea View. Mr. Shelton seemed to be tiring, and Maggy put a tentative hand on the back of the chair and began pushing. He didn't appear to notice and they continued in silence until the imposing facade of the Imperial loomed through the dusk. Maggy found herself wondering foolishly whether Mr. Shelton had a wife, what she would say to a semi-paralysed man getting soaked in the rain, and why she wasn't

with him. Possibly he had children as old as herself living in that castle in Ireland. He remarked suddenly and rather crossly: "I hope you'll change your shoes as soon as you get in." His concern was so absurd, so out of character with the rest of him that she laughed, and her laughter was so fresh and spontaneous, so out of keeping with the little he knew of her, that he looked up quickly. "How young you sound," he said, and smiled, and for an instant his long, rather bitter face held a fleeting charm. He must have been attractive, Maggy thought, when he was younger - before the accident. They had stopped outside the main doors of the hotel. "Thank you," he said. "You must be a good companion; you don't chatter." "Oh, but I do," she said impulsively. "I mean, I like to." He looked at her with the first spark of interest he had shown as yet for anyone. "Do you?" he said a little wearily. "Poor child." The hall porter hurried out of his cubbyhole to assist the chair over the step, and in the lobby Doolan was waiting, disapproval written all over his face. "I'm surprised at you, sor, gallivantin' all over the town in this contraption. Is it drowned ye are?"

"I was well looked after," his master said, and his harsh, rather ironical tones made Mrs. Smythe-Gibson and her feminine bridge four look up simultaneously and stare at the little party crossing the lounge. "Good-night, Maggy, and thank you for your escort," he said clearly and courteously, and disregarding everyone else, propelled his chair with Doolan's help into the waiting lift.

CHAPTER II WHETHER it was a case of damp stockings or not, the fact was abundantly clear the next morning that Maggy had caught a cold. "It all goes to show," Mrs. Smythe-Gibson stormed. "Sneaking out in the rain like any little shop girl to pick up a man. I would say it serves you right, but I am the one to suffer. Sniffing and sneezing all over me and not content till you've passed your horrid germs on to me. Why on earth I keep you, God knows - you're just plain inefficient." Maggy was tempted to reply: "Because nobody else will stay with you longer than six weeks and you know it." But she contented herself with saying she was sorry about the cold, but she didn't think it was necessarily a mark of inefficiency. A cold was no respecter of persons. "Don't answer back," her employer snapped, and her bulging blue eyes were as hard as marbles. "Your head's been turned, that's what it is, my good girl. But don't think for a moment because you forced yourself on a helpless man —" There was plenty more in the same vein. Maggy had heard it already for half the night when in all probability the cold germs, assisted by much broken sleep, were doing their worst. "Don't think," Mrs. Smythe-Gibson finished, "that you can retire to your bed and be waited on hand and foot. Use plenty of Vapex and don't breathe all over me. I've plenty of jobs for you today." The weather was fine again, and after a day in the overheated hotel, Maggy longed to go out on the terrace for some fresh air, but Mrs. Smythe-Gibson vetoed that.

"You must nurse that cold, my dear," she said unpleasantly. "Standing on the terrace on an autumn evening couldn't possibly do it any good." Maggy spent a disturbed night. Sleep was fitful, and she had an attack of coughing which brought impatient reproaches from Mrs. Smythe-Gibson next door. In the morning she felt heavy- eyed and her head ached abominably. After breakfast there were letters to write and she made repeated mistakes. Her writing felt wobbly and weak, and her spelling, never her strong point, deserted her entirely. Mrs. Smythe-Gibson, after some caustic comments, threw a pile of mending on to Maggy's bed and departed for her daily session at the Baths. , Mercifully her employer was lunching out, so Maggy went down to the dining-room early, hoping to get an hour in which to lie down before the afternoon round began. She sat in thankful solitude trying to eat the dishes put before her, but all desire for food seemed to have gone, and she refused the sweet and got up to go. In the doorway she met Mr. Shelton just coming in, and stood aside to allow his chair to pass. "You weren't on the terrace yesterday," he said, and made it. sound like an accusation. "I've got a cold," said Maggy. "Didn't change your shoes, I suppose," he snapped, and looked at her more closely. "Yes, you have got a cold. You ought to be in bed," he said, and wheeled himself over to his table. By tea-time it became evident even to Mrs. Smythe-Gibson that Maggy ought to be in bed.

"You'd better stay there till you're cured," she said ungraciously. "I'll get no sense out of you in this state. Most inconsiderate, I call it, wasting my time and my money, to say nothing of keeping me awake at night." So Maggy went gratefully to bed, conscious as the evening wore on of a rising temperature and aching limbs. In the morning Mrs. Smythe-Gibson, fearful now that she was perhaps harbouring fever in her bosom, summoned the hotel doctor, insisting on an examination herself before he saw Maggy. "These girls ... all alike ... after all I've done for her... ingratitude ... inconsiderate .. overtaxing my strength ..." The spate of words continued all through the examination. Doctor Mackinnon was a shrewd, plain-speaking little Scotsman. He disliked Mrs. Smythe-Gibson rather more than the rest of his hypochondriacal patients and was sorry for any employee of hers. He had had very little to do with Maggy, and until he saw her, flushed and tousle-headed in her narrow bed, hadn't realised how young she was. He gave her a thorough overhaul, and asked her several searching and unexpected questions. "You cart set your mind at rest as to 'flu," he told Mrs. SmytheGibson dryly. "She has a feverish cold that needs watching, and she's run down and wants plenty of rest. She'd best stay where she is for several days. The child's starved." "Starved!" shrieked Mrs. Smythe-Gibson. "My dear doctor, the girl lives as I do. The best of everything and as much food as she can eat. If she's been suggesting -" "I wasn't speaking of the body," he said shortly. "She's starved emotionally. She misses her father and hotels are no sort of life for a young girl."

"If you're trying to imply that Maggy receives no kindness, all I can say is -" "Madam, the implication is yours," said the doctor, his bushy, sandy eyebrows twitching with a trick they had when he was roused to any sort of emotion. "Leave her severely alone. I'll be looking in this evening and every day until she's well. Good morning to you." "Well!" exclaimed Mrs. Smythe-Gibson, but because she had seldom in her life been bullied by any man, she obeyed him. The next few days were luxurious for Maggy. When the fever abated, and the cold settled down to its normal stages of recovery,' she was able to lie in blissful solitude, sleeping and daydreaming by turns. She came to like very much the blunt little doctor who visited her regularly and often stayed to chat. On his third visit he brought her a book. "It belongs to another patient of mine - Mr. Shelton. I told him you were sick and he thought you might like something to read." "Oh!" Maggy was surprised. Garth Shelton hadn't seemed to her the sort of person who would bother himself about his fellow guests. When Mackinnon had gone she examined the book with interest. It was an old edition of The Wind in the Willows and on the fly-leaf was written in a charming, decorative hand the one word, "Sabrina." Her/imagination was immediately stirred. What a lovely name. Who was Sabrina - his wife, his daughter? The handwriting matched the name, graceful, delicate. Who had written it? Or was it perhaps Mr. Shelton's own writing in a book he had Once given away? But the next day he sent up another book, and in it was his own name "G.M. Shelton, Castle Floyne," and a date written in a small, neat, and obviously masculine hand. Sabrina had inscribed her own name.

"It's kind of him," Maggy told the doctor. "Will you thank him very much. I - I feel awfully sorry for Mr. Shelton. It must be terrible to be paralysed." "There are worse things," said Mackinnon dryly. "He's not sorry for himself, I'll say that for him. Just indifferent, and perhaps that's worse." "Is it true he'll never recover?" Maggy asked shyly. She felt she shouldn't be discussing someone who so plainly evaded curiosity. The doctor shrugged. "He's been to some of the best men in the country, I believe, and they all tell him the same thing. An operation would be dangerous and unless there is a real incentive to live on the part of the patient, few surgeons would risk it." Maggy's eyes opened wide. "But doesn't he want to get better?" she asked in an awed voice. The doctor shrugged again. "Shock is a strange thing," he said. "Perhaps in a little while, when he is stronger - but at present I should say he is a man with no interest in the future whatever." "How awful!" said Maggy, and sounded really shocked. Mackinnon smiled reluctantly. He liked Maggy. She reminded him of his own fifteen-year-old daughter at school in Bournemouth. "Yes, it must be difficult for the young to understand a state of mind .like that, but I think in his case there may have been other troubles."

Maggy didn't know why she had a swift mental picture of the name Sabrina, written in flowing, graceful letters. "What happens in a case like that?" she asked with pity. "I mean, what happens to cause permanent paralysis and why can't it be cured?" The doctor's eyebrows twitched violently. "It can be cured - that is, in certain cases," he said. "What happens is this. Say the patient is thrown from a horse, as was the case with Shelton, X-ray examination shows broken ribs with perforation and collapse of one lung, and further examination suggests a clot of blood pressing "on the spinal canal. The only treatment to save the legs from permanent paralysis is an operation, but since the chest condition is extremely dangerous, it's a risk that Could only be taken at the patient's own desire." "I see." Maggy's smooth forehead wrinkled with distress. "And doesn't he really care enough? I mean, wouldn't it be better to chance dying than be a cripple for life?" Mackinnon rubbed his nose thoughtfully. "I don't know, Maggy," he said. "You and I would think so, but then we have our health and strength, and no mental abnormalities from shock. Shelton, I honestly believe, is a mail with no interest in whether he lives or dies, and if he dreads life in a wheelchair he gives no sign. I think at present part of his will, his desire to be cured or what you will, is as paralysed as his legs. It's quite a common form that shock takes at first. Personally, I think he'd do better in his own home and country than trapesing around these depressing English health resorts."

"Perhaps," said Maggy wisely, "he wants to get away from everything he knew before the accident." The doctor patted her hand and got up to go. "You're probably right," he said, "but now for you, young ' lady. Another two days in bed and two more taking things fasy downstairs, and after that I fear me I'll not be able to keep you any longer out of the clutches of that old — besom. Find another job. This one doesn't suit you." Maggy's eyes filled with the easy tears of convalescence," "You've been so kind," she said. "It's nice to have someone to talk to. My father and I used to talk a lot. We used to laugh a lot, too." "Yes, well the doctor cleared his throat, twitched his eyebrows alarmingly and hurried off to his next patient.

Maggy sent back Mr. Shelton's books by the doctor as soon as she finished them, but she kept The Wind in the Willows to return herself, partly for the charm of reading and re-reading the story which had been one of her father's favourites, and partly because the name on the fly-leaf held a queer kind of intimacy with which she was loth to part. All too soon, once she was out of bed again, Mrs. Smythe- Gibson demanded a return to duty, but on the first sunny afternoon, Mackinnon ordered her to wrap up well and sit on the terrace until tea-time. The terrace was well occupied today. Maggy saw the General and Mrs. Fitzjones discussing their symptoms in cosy isolation while the Admiral and Colonel Lamb dozed in their deck chairs; Lady Wing's

personal maid was arranging rugs and books in a sheltered corner, and at the far end of the terrace, marooned in its usual solitude, was Mr. Shelton's wheelchair. Maggy, Sabrina's book tucked tightly under her arm, hesitated for a moment, then marched boldly along the gravelled walk. A week ago, she would never have dreamed of disturbing anyone's solitude, least of all Mr. Shelton who seemed so unaware of the existence of others, but there is something about the lending of books which creates a human bond, however slight, and she was grateful for his kindness. ' He looked up at the sound of her footsteps and smiled. "Hullo! Feeling better?" "Yes, thank you. I wanted to return your book. Thank you very much for lending it to me — and the others," she said shyly, and held out The Wind in the Willows. He took it and laid it carelessly on his knees. "Of course you knew it already," he said idly. Maggy nodded. "My father used to read it to me when I was small. We both loved it very much." He made no comment, and there seemed nothing else to say. Maggy stood beside him awkwardly, first on one foot, then on another. "Well, thank you very much," she said again, and turned to go. "What are you supposed to be doing with yourself now?" he asked.

"Well -" she glanced down the terrace to look for an empty chair, "Dr. Mackinnon said I was to sit in the sun." "There's a chair here," he said briefly. Maggy sat down beside him, feeling rather uncomfortable. She didn't like to pull the chair further away, but at the same time she was sure he wanted to be left alone. She snuggled down into the collar of her coat and kept very still. But apparently he wanted' to talk. "Our friend the doctor seems to have taken a fancy to you," he remarked. "He told me quite a lot about you on his various visits." "Oh, did he?" said Maggy, surprised. "He's very kind, isn't he?" "Why do you work for that old woman?" He had asked her that before, and he sounded impatient. "Well, you see." She tried to explain, conscious of the difficulty of making things clear to someone who had obviously never been faced with the same situation. "I- wasn't trained for anything. I was educated at home which meant no exams, and you'd be surprised how the silliest job these days seems to require a good G.C.E. Secreterial courses and things like that need money for training, and when Daddy died there wasn't any." Garth Shelton frowned. "But had he made no sort of provision?" "He had in a kind of a way. I was going abroad to study music when I was older, but I knew I never would, really. Daddy was terribly generous. He gave everything away and then forgot he had."

"The improvident clergy!" he exclaimed impatiently. "And I suppose you were pushed into the first post that came along." "I wasn't pushed, unless you mean by the ladies of the parish," she said. "One of them found Mrs. Smythe-Gibson for me, but Ellen didn't like it at all." "Ellen?" "She was our servant and our best friend," said Maggy with tenderness. "She used to be my nurse." "And so, poor innocent, you fell into the hands of the Jews and Levites." "Oh, I don't think Mrs. Smythe-Gibson is a Jewess," said Maggy seriously. He smiled faintly. "Does a paid companion have any privacy? " he asked. "Oh, yes, privacy is inside yourself, isn't it? No one can really touch that," said Maggy with dignity, then in a burst of childish candour added: "The nights are the worst. The rooms being so close, she hears." "Hears what?" "If you cry," said Maggy simply and unashamed. ' He looked at her then, and for the first time she saw compassion in his face, (a fleeting hint that understanding might lie behind those rigid shutters. "How old are you?" he asked gently.

"Nineteen. Mrs. Smythe-Gibson likes me to look older. I do when I wear my glasses." He asked with disconcerting abruptness: "And how old do you think I am?" She returned his quizzical look, feeling a little embarrassed. Personalities were the last thing she had expected of him, but he was in a totally unfamiliar mood today. "Well?" She looked at the thin dark face with its bitter lines, and the black hair heavily streaked with grey, and felt herself flushing. "I don't know. Forty-something?" she submitted timidly. "I'm thirty-six," he said, and oblivious of her discomfiture, relapsed into silence. Maggy sat uneasily curling her toes up inside her cheap brogues. Only thirty-six! Why, that was hardly old at all. Her father had been that age when he had married her mother, but her father had never seemed as old as this to the day he died. She sat staring at the sea until her eyes watered, vividly conscious of her companion's indifferent remoteness, and wishing now to get away for fear he would feel obliged to talk to her. But glancing at him later she thought he must be asleep, for he lay back with his eyes closed, and she got up as quietly as she could and was beginning to creep away when he spoke. "The North Sea is depressing, isn't it? Always cold and grey. The Atlantic's quite different."

She wondered if he was missing his home after all. "Shall you stay much longer?" she asked for something to say. "No, not much longer. The specialist's coming down in a day or two to have another look at me, and then I shall go back." "To Ireland?" "Perhaps" ' "Your wife will be pleased," said Maggy, betrayed into one of her unthinking remarks. He looked at her oddly. "What made you think I was married?" he asked curiously. "I - I don't know." She looked down at the book lying on his knees and felt Sabrina's name must be burning through the , cover. His eyes followed hers and a queer closed expression came into his face. "Oh, I see," he said, the old harshness' back in his voice. "You've been making romantic stories out of a name." Maggy felt her cheeks flame. "I - I'm sorry," she stammered. "I didn't mean to be inquisitive. It was only that it was such a lovely name. Is she — is she dead?" He was silent for a long time and she thought that she had made him angry. But when he spoke at last, there was no emotion whatever in his voice. "She doesn't exist," he said enigmatically, and closed his eyes again, taking no further notice of her.

She didn't see him again for - several days. Mrs. Smythe- Gibson made up for the wasted time of Maggy's days in bed by keeping her hard at any conceivable job she could think of, and on the few occasions on which she was able to escape from the hotel, she avoided the terrace and went for walks in the town. With the exaggeration of the solitary, she was acutely conscious of trespassing. It had been unpardonable to show curiosity on such slight acquaintance. She wished passionately that she had never seen Sabrina's lovely name written across the page. Mrs. Smythe-Gibson didn't make things easier by constantly referring to the one subject which really riled her. Although Maggy's association with the unapproachable Mr. Shelton could scarcely be termed by the wildest gossip as one of more than ordinary common politeness, it was at least evident that she was the only human being in the hotel who had claimed his attention at all. "Since he does deign to speak to you," Mrs. Smythe-Gibson observed sarcastically, "the least you could do is to try and get him to take some interest in the life of the hotel. It's for his own good. The man's a recluse and with that unfortunate infirmity he should be made to come out of his shell." "But, Mrs. Smythe-Gibson, he doesn't want to talk to people. Besides, he's leaving here quite soon," said Maggy wearily. "If you're implying" that a man of Mr. Shelton's breeding and intelligence prefers the company of an ignorant little paid companion to that of a woman like myself, well all I can say is..." All Mrs. Smythe-Gibson could say took a very long time. When she had finally finished, Maggy was reduced to tears and heartily wished that Mr. Shelton and his wheelchair had never entered the smug portals of the Imperial Hotel.

She snatched up a coat, knocking her glasses off the dressing table and smashing them, and ran out of the room and down the stairs and away from the imprisoning hotel. She sped along the deserted terrace, and almost ran into Garth Shelton's wheelchair. "Oh!" she said, and stood stock still. He was the very last person she wanted to meet. He regarded her thoughtfully, saw the tears still wet on her face, and remarked: "More trouble?" She forgot her former avoidance of him and the cause, and because she was still upset and therefore unguarded, found her self pouring it all out. And as she talked she was aware of a difference in him which finally silenced her. She thought he looked very tired and spent like someone who has been through some great emotional crisis, and there was a gentleness in his remoteness that was new. "Have you had a bad day?'' she asked impulsively. He smiled. "Perhaps. Look, Maggy, can I help placate this virago?" "You?" She looked at him astonished that he should be offering her a portion of his own privacy. "Would you? It sounds so silly, but if you could bear some time to have a drink with her or something, she would be quite satisfied." He grimaced. "Aren't people odd? Well, it's little enough to ask. I shall be leaving here in a day or two now, so I can't become embroiled. Tell Mrs.

Whatshername that I will be delighted if you both will take coffee with me after dinner in the Palm Court." "Tonight?" exclaimed Maggy, hardly able to believe her ears. A strange look crossed his face. "Yes, why not tonight? It's as good as any other," he said, and began to propel his chair along the terrace.

Thinking over that uncomfortable evening, Maggy wondered afterwards if it had been worth it. Mrs. Smythe-Gibson when given the message had been so elated that all through her elaborate preparations for dinner Maggy had been obliged to listen to amorous confidences of the past. Mrs. SmytheGibson was like a large plump cat replete with overfeeding. She almost purred; and had only one acid remark to make as she left her bedroom. "You needn't stay after dinner," she said sharply. "Have your coffee and make your excuses. You can find plenty of jobs to do up here." "Yes, Mrs. Smythe-Gibson," said Maggy dutifully. She wondered with faint disgust if her employer really wished to attract the man or whether it was rather a desire to score off Mrs. Fitzjones and the other women. It was certainly Mrs. Smythe-Gibson's little hour of triumph. Garth Shelton always had dinner in his room, so that his entry into the Palm Court wearing a dinner jacket caused a mild sensation. Mrs. Smythe-Gibson, displaying every jewel she possessed, which was a considerable amount, rose to greet him.

"Move round, Maggy, and make room for Mr. Shelton's chair," she said loudly. "Now this, Mr. Shelton, is a great improvement. I've always said you should come out of your shell more than you do. What are we in this world for but to help others endure their infirmities?" Maggy clenched her hands tightly. This was going to be quite dreadful. She didn't dare look at Garth, but heard his harsh voice replying courteously : "That's very nice of you, Mrs. Smythe-Gibson. I'm afraid I've not been very sociable while I've been here, but you know what it is." "Oh, indeed I do, you poor man," exclaimed Mrs. Smythe- Gibson, who didn't. He ordered coffee and liqueur brandy which he insisted upon Maggy having too} and the terrible conversation went on and on. Maggy shrank into the ill-favoured beige frock and tried not to listen, holding her big balloon glass between her nervous hands and staring into the amber liquid. The string quartette had been rendering the usual Palm Court syrup, but now they began to play the Brahms Wiegenlied and Maggy's eyes filled with tears. She had played that lovely air many times for her father; it held only happy associations; they had no right to play it here. "Where are your glasses, Maggy? You know your eyes are weak," said Mrs. Smythe-Gibson sharply, and Maggy became aware that they were both watching her. "I smashed them," she said defiantly. Her employer's eyes hardened.

"How extremely careless," she said. "How do you suppose you are going to attend to your duties tomorrow when you're as blind as a bat without your glasses?" "I'm not really," said Maggy patiently. "Besides, I've got another pair somewhere." "Then why didn't you put them on? Vanity?" "Drink up your brandy, you haven't touched it yet," said Garth Shelton, and he smiled at her over the rim of his glass. The taste of brandy was unfamiliar to Maggy, and seemed to burn her throat but afterwards settled in a comfortable glow somewhere in her lungs. "You'll be making the child quite tipsy, Mr. Shelton," Mrs. SmytheGibson said, and laughed self-consciously. "Now, tell me all about yourself. I hear you have a beautiful old place in Ireland. I remember my late husband always said to me: 'You must see Ireland before you die, Gladys,' but I haven't achieved it yet." And so it went on, and presently Maggy was aware that her employer was frowning at her. "Quite finished, dear? Then I think it's time you left us. There are several little unfinished jobs waiting for you upstairs -remember?" Maggy was glad to go. For one bad moment she thought that Mr. Shelton was also going to take his leave, but he merely moved his chair a fraction. His face registered nothing but cold politeness. "Good night, Mr. Shelton, and thank you," Maggy said, and he replied unemotionally: "Good night, Maggy."

She never knew how long he had remained, for Mrs. Smythe- Gibson didn't come to bed until nearly midnight. She seemed pleased with herself and said she had won again at bridge, and once the face cream, the chin strap, the slumber net had all been satisfactorily adjusted she retired to bed with a novel and didn't disturb Maggy until morning. But Maggy was glad she didn't see Mr. Shelton the next day. The kindness he had done her had not been worth his rudely invaded privacy. It was with surprise, therefore, that she found herself stopped by Doolan the following day with a message. "If it was convenient to yourself, miss, the master would like to see you. Could you be going out to the terrace this afternoon?" "Yes, Doolan, I think so," said Maggy, a little puzzled. He had talked about leaving very shortly. Perhaps he wanted to say good-bye. She was unable to get away from Mrs. Smythe-Gibson until nearly half-past three, and hurried out to the terrace to find Garth sitting as he so often did, motionless, with his eyes closed. As he heard her step on the gravel, he said without opening his eyes: "Maggy?" "Yes, it's me," she said, and stood looking down at him a little nervously. "Sit down," he said. "I want to talk to you." She lowered herself into the same chair in which she had sat during that other strange conversation, and he suddenly opened his eyes and looked straight at her. "Would you take another job?" he asked without preamble.

Maggy's eyes opened wide. It was the last remark she had expected. "I'd give anything for another job - it would be heaven whatever it was," she said extravagantly. His cold eyes flickered for a moment. "Well, not perhaps heaven, but better than the one you have," he remarked dryly. "Do you know something - something I'm capable of doing, I mean?" "Would you work for me?" "For you?" She was taken completely aback. "You mean as a sort of companion? " He looked as though something amused him. "I suppose you might call it that," he said and continued rather severely: "There's only one condition attached. I should require you to marry me." Maggy felt a little light-headed. "You — w-what?" she gasped. "You'd better listen quietly while I explain," he said, and his harsh voice was quite impersonal. "I've decided to go back to Floyne. Your duties there would be very light. I don't expect people to fetch and carry for me, and in any case, Doolan attends to my personal wants which are very few. You might find it a bit lonely at first, but at least your soul would be your own."

"But - do you mean you want someone to run your house?" asked Maggy, struggling to grasp the reason for this extraordinary proposition. "Mrs Duffy sees to that." "Then - then - I don't understand. Why marry me? " "Ireland is not like England. The Irish are very respectable. Don't interrupt, please." She found those chill grey eyes could be very disconcerting, and lowered her own in silence. "I have my reasons for including marriage in the arrangement," he went on. "It will not be for very long in any case, so It needn't trouble you - four months perhaps, six at the most." She looked up then with a swift sense of shock, but was unable to frame a question. "I've seen the specialist again," he continued still in that level, expressionless voice. "Apparently there's a new development. I won't bore you with medical details, but the clot on the spinal canal is shifting. It's only a matter of time before it reaches the heart and then finish. So you see, Maggy, yours would only be a temporary post, as it were.' Wildly, Maggy said the first thing that came into her head. "Was it the day you asked us to coffee - the day you first knew, I mean?" "Yes, it was," he said with a faint flash of interest. "How did you guess?" She remembered that he had seemed different, gentler and in some measure, released, and she remembered, too, his unfailing politeness

to Mrs. Smythe-Gibson through that difficult evening. While she was horrified at having invaded his privacy at such a moment, she dimly understood that that moment had made his gesture possible, and the tears threatened to choke her. She heard his voice saying with impatient irritability: "Now don't get sentimental over this. I assure you that the news was very welcome to the only person it at all affects — myself. Please go away and think it over calmly and sensibly. As far as the thing affects you, you would simply be exchanging one job for another, and later, you would find yourself' sufficiently provided for to make that kind of work unnecessary." Maggy controlled herself with an effort. In the face of his own sincere indifference it would be insulting to sympathise. She got up and carefully felt her legs which seemed like cotton wool, and he said more gently: "Take it easy. Your mind will adjust itself in a little while. But let me know your decision soon. I want to leave here at the end of the week, and if you're coming with me there are certain arrangements to be made at once. Doolan will see to it all. I don't need to add that only Dr. Mackinnon and yourself know the facts. I don't want the whole hotel going maudlin over me, so whatever you do decide, keep the fact of my future demise to yourself." He nodded to her kindly as if he had just bade her keep his travelling plans a secret, and lay back and shut his eyes in the old, familiar way. Maggy spent a tormented night. As he had predicted, her mind began to adjust itself, but she found her thoughts very confused. Whatever way you looked at it, the odd proposition was still a proposal of marriage. Her first proposal and one of the strangest on record. Had her father been living, what would he have thought? Marriage was a

sacrament whatever other meaning it might hold, and wouldn't it be mocking God to accept it as the price of a living? But this train of thought led to a further confusion of ethics. Weren't there hundreds of women all the world over who married for a home, for security from want, even from loneliness? There was no wrong in marrying a dying man if by so doing she could help him in any way. Here, Maggy was forced to admit that she didn't think anyone could help Garth Shelton, for he had no need of it. And yet there must be some personal reason for his request. He was far too indifferent to life merely to be considering her. Then why not? Why not seize opportunity by the heels and accept with both hands? It would be for only such a short time. At that she wept for him a little. Her father's death was too recent for her to contemplate the death of another with detachment, even though she knew that this stranger had raised no finger to help himself. Rather, she knew that when he said he welcomed his release, he spoke only the truth, and that seemed to her the most terrible thing of all. Was there no one — no one ia all the world whom he would find it hard to leave? And just as she fell asleep, she felt again the rhythm of that gracious name, Sabrina. But Sabrina was dead. Maggy sighed, relaxed her limbs, and was comforted.

CHAPTER III IT was Mrs. Smythe-Gibson herself who finally decided Maggy. Nothing could satisfy her the day following Garth Shelton's proposal, and by the end of the day she was deliberately looking for shortcomings. Maggy, whose own problem had gnawed at her like an insistent rat ever since she had wakened, was forgetful and clumsy, and during the hour of dressing for dinner she knocked over and broke an expensive bottle of perfume. It gave Mrs. Smythe- Gibson ample opportunity to enumerate again all Maggy's failings, finishing up by stating that her bath salts were disappearing. "Helping yourself on the sly, I suppose, and thinking I wouldn't notice. But that and the perfume will be stopped out of your salary," she said. "I never touch your bath salts except to put them in your bath," said Maggy wearily. "You told me to put in a double quantity lately, that's why they've been going faster." "Don't make excuses. I know what's going on around here. The last girl I had used to borrow my perfume. I soon put a stop to that!, let me tell you, so take care, Maggy." Mrs. Smythe-Gibson was searching for a handkerchief, and soon she exclaimed : "Where's the Irish lace one I bought at Torquay? It's not among any of these." Maggy looked, but couldn't find it, aware of those greedy, protruding eyes fixed on her movements.

"Perhaps the laundry sent it back with mine," she said. "I'll go and look." "And I bet you'll find it this time," said the strident voice. The handkerchief was there among her own, together with another belonging to Mrs. Smythe-Gibson. It was a thing which had often happened before. "I thought so!" said Mrs. Smythe-Gibson with triumph. "And I suppose you thought you'd get away with that, too! Laundry, indeed! Let me tell you, my girl, there's another name for things that do a disappearing act." Maggy stood very erect, and looked her employer straight in the eye. "I'm not a thief, Mrs. Smythe-Gibson, and you know that perfectly well," she said in a clear voice. "I'm just an outlet for your ill-temper, and you know that too. The only mistake you've made is in thinking all this time that I didn't know it." "Well!" said Mrs. Smythe-Gibson with dropping jaw. "You have to put up with a lot of things for your bread and butter, when you're like me, untrained and rather young," went on Maggy suddenly feeling as light as air. "And you learn in time that there are different sorts, of jobs and different sorts of employers. I'm leaving you, Mrs. Smythe-Gibson - at the end of the week." Mrs. Smythe-Gibson's speechlessness gave way to bluster, abuse and reproaches, but it was a feeble display, not up to her usual standard. There had been something about Maggy that had told her she had gone too far. Maggy listened with interest. Now that it was too late, she had found out how easy it was to stand up to this type of woman.

"I'm going to another job," was all she would say when threats were of no avail, and entreaties began. "No, I don't think I need tell you where and who with. That's my own private affair." And she went into her own room and shut and locked the communicating door. She spent the rest of the evening in a mood of utmost tranquillity, and when she went to bed, slept dreamlessly. The next morning she asked if she might go out for an hour, and Mrs. Smythe-Gibson meekly gave permission, so Maggy put on her coat and went out on to the terrace to find Garth . Shelton. He watched her coming with satisfaction. "So you've decided to accept my proposition?" he remarked when she stopped beside him. She nodded, and some of that new-found self-assurance began to leave her. "Did you know I would?" "It's all over the hotel that you upped and handed in your notice last night. I didn't think you'd be so strong-minded." He sounded faintly amused. "She called me a thief," said Maggy. "Well, it's the best thing you could have done. Now we can get on with it. I shall want some particulars." He took a notebook and pencil from his breast pocket. "Full name, please. Margaret-?" "No, I was christened Maggy. It sounds sort of plain, doesn't it?" "Surname?"

"Crayle," said Maggy, and thought how queer that you shouldn't know the name of the girl you were going to marry. But she supposed that there were very few people in the hotel who did know. Everyone called her Maggy. "Parents' full names?" She gave them and he wrote them down. "Age, nineteen. You're of age. No consent necessary. That's all, I think." He shut the notebook and returned it to his pocket. "Doolan will see to all the forms and notifying the Registrar. I want to leave here by Monday." "There's one thing," said Maggy, and felt herself flushing. "Would we be able - I mean would, it make any difference to you if we were m-married in a church? My father would have liked it." He frowned. "Church? It seems rather pointless in the circumstances, but yes, I suppose we could. That'll mean a special licence. Doolan must see to it." . "Thank you," said Maggy faintly. He glanced at her sharply. "It's, only a business arrangement, you know," he said more gently, "designed purely to give you more rights than you would otherwise have — make the whole situation easier for us both, in fact. You're very young, Maggy. It won't be much out of your life, and afterwards you'll be able to meet and marry that nice young man who, I believe, all young girls dream about." But the idea was altogether too new for Maggy.

"Oh, don't, don't please talk like that - ever," she cried. "It'll make it all so much more difficult.'' "All right, I won't," he said prosaically. "I didn't want you to feel cheated, that's all. It's just another job, and I flatter myself that I can't possibly be as bad as Mrs. Smythe-Gibson. Doolan will let you know if there is anything to sign and make all the final arrangements." He decided that it was unnecessary for Mrs. Smythe-Gibson to be told anything. It would only mean a bad week for Maggy and a source of gossip in the hotel. But Maggy told the doctor. "Um ..." he remarked thoughtfully, and stood looking at her rather fiercely, his bushy eyebrows twitching violently. "Well, I'm not sure it isn't the best thing you could do, all things considered. A strange fancy for a man in his condition to have. I shouldn't have said he would have roused himself sufficiently to think of someone else." "I don't think the arrangement is for my benefit," said Maggy quickly. "It's just more convenient, like - like signing a contract." "Maybe. At any rate it assures you of a comfortable future, and that's quite a load off my mind." He rubbed his nose with a comic gesture and shot her a quick bright glance. "You're not fond of him, are you, Maggy?" "Fond?" She considered the word in all its aspects. "I — I don't think so. I hardly know him." "It's not nice waiting for someone to die - even a stranger. Have you thought of that?" Maggy hadn't really thought of anything beyond the immediate implications of the situation. Now she had a moment's dim perception of the doctor's meaning, and for an instant she was afraid.

"Heaps of people look after sick persons - nurses — even just companions like me - paid for it like me," she said defensively, and added from the bitterness of her only brief experience: "There's not much personal feeling between employer and employee." He smiled unwillingly. "You're young, Maggy," he said gruffly. "Even for paid companions, all employers aren't alike. Well, I don't know. As long as you remember you are an employee and forget the other- business, you'll be all right, maybe." "There will be no reason for me to get the two confused," said Maggy simply. Mackinnon did a surprising thing. He leant forward and kissed her on the forehead. "God bless you, my dear," he said. "Try not to get hurt, will you?" The rest of the week was something of a strain for Maggy. Mrs. Smythe-Gibson exacted full toll for her companion's presumption in leaving her, and was fully determined to extract every ounce from the last days of her domination. Maggy was run off her feet both night and day, and by the end of the week she looked white and exhausted. She saw nothing of Garth Shelton, but Doolan required her signature for certain papers and acquainted her finally with the settled arrangements. Maggy was rather alarmed by Doolan. His perpetual air of disapproval, which she was subsequently to find was mainly directed against the country and the Imperial, Hotel in particular, made her uneasy. What he thought about the present situation she had no means of knowing, but she suspected he viewed herself and the whole strange

procedure with deep misgiving. She didn't realise for some time that Doolan's whole life was bound up in his master and nothing outside was of any account at all. "The weddin's fixed for Monday, nine o'clock sharp. We wishes to be in London by lunch time. We will be meetin' ye at the church at that hour, miss, an' will ye plaze be in time, for it's destroyed the master will be if the cyar is kept waitin' without," he told her. , Maggy gravely assured him she would be on time, and left alone, thought how incongruous that phrase had sounded: The wedding's fixed for Monday. Wedding had a gay and joyous sound to it, not a word at all to be associated with that meaningless ceremony scheduled for nine o'clock sharp on Monday. There should be another name for such unions as this, and suddenly Maggy wished that she had agreed to the Registrar's office.

She wished it still more, standing beside Garth's wheelchair in the ugly little modern church in the middle of the town, for the words of the marriage service made a deep impression on Maggy. She had left the hotel at half-past eight, and, carrying her small suitcase, walked to the church in" a heavy downpour of rain. At the last, Mrs.. Smythe-Gibson had taken refuge in a heavy displeasure which brooked no farewells. She was still sleeping when Maggy left her room, and downstairs in the empty public rooms the life of the hotel had not yet begun. Maggy reflected with humour as she went through the big swing doors for the last time that the residents would call this an elopement. Walking through the wet streets, carrying her suitcase, she felt much more as if she were going to the station to catch a train than to a church to be married.

In her anxiety to obey Doolan's instructions she was much too early. Not knowing what to do with her suitcase, she pushed it behind a pillar, and slipped into one of the back pews to wait. The church was empty and very dark. Maggy listened to the rain beating against the windows and became aware that it was also cold. The wet ends of her hair clung round her neck and deposited little drops of water inside her mackintosh. The verger must have been waiting in the porch, for he opened the doors to allow Doolan to push in his master's chair, then began to precede them up the aisle. Maggy saw Doolan look anxiously round, then stood up awkwardly. Garth looked straight ahead, and his tired face seemed to match the greyness of the little church. "I'm here," whispered Maggy, and took her place beside the chair. The verger turned a startled face as she appeared like a small ghost from the shadows, then motioned them to follow him to the altar steps. Garth gave her a brief smile, but said nothing, and presently a very old clergyman came out of the vestry, and without preliminary began to read the marriage service. To Maggy, the words had an acute poignancy. With my body I thee worship ... but that was lies... to have and to hold from this day forward ... that was a sacred trust... in sickness and in health, till death us do part... and that held a terrible truth. She could no longer see the clergyman's face through a wavering mist of tears, and she knew a single moment of .outraged revulsion. Then she heard Garth's unemotional voice making his responses, and presently she made her own, a little shaky but quite clear. There was no address. The old man gave them both a puzzled, uncertain glance and the ceremony was over. The signing of the register was accomplished in silence. Maggy, minus her glasses, screwed her eyes up childishly as she wrote her name beneath Garth's. Doolan and the

verger witnessed the signature, and they left the church, quite forgetting Maggy's suitcase on the way out. It took a little time to settle Garth into the hired car which was to take them to London, and Maggy stood in the shelter of the porch while she watched Doolan's expert handling. Once she ran forward to assist with the rugs, but was sharply ordered by Garth to, stay out of the rain. When he was settled he beckoned her in beside him, and they sat in silence while the chair was strapped on the luggage grid and covered with a tarpaulin. Doolan got into the front seat beside the driver and the car moved off. ' They drove out of the town along the sea front, and Maggy looked for the last time at the imposing facade of the Imperial Hotel, at the Grand and the Majestic and little Beach Towers and Sea View. The rain had reduced them all to the same depressing level. "Glad to be leaving?" Garth asked suddenly. They were almost the first words he had spoken to her. She took off her hat and shook out her wet hair. "Yes — very glad," she said briefly. He looked at the damp ends of her hair, which were beginning to curl, and remarked: "You're very wet." "I walked to the church," she explained, and he frowned. "You should have had a taxi. Doolan should have seen to it." "It didn't matter," she said, and suddenly remembered her suitcase. "Mr. Shelton!" The grey eyes look at her with a hint of amusement.

"You'll have to start calling me something else now," he said. Maggy looked blank, then suddenly flushed. "Oh!" she said, "but you're my employer now." "I'm also your husband," he returned dryly. "It will look a little odd if you continue to address me so formally." She remembered his signature in one of the books he had lent her. G. M. Shelton. What did the initials stand for? Of that more recent signature in the vestry, try as she would, she had no recollection. "I'm afraid I don't know your first name," she said shyly. "Garth," he replied, and didn't seem to find her admission odd. Why should he? They were comparative strangers, and he hadn't known her surname until she agreed to marry him. He didn't appear to want to talk after that, and lay back in the car with his eyes closed. Maggy hardly liked to tell him about the suitcase now. He would be annoyed if they had to go back for it, and he probably wanted to sleep. She spent five embarrassing minutes trying to decide whether it would be worse to arrive at their hotel with no possessions at all, or risk his displeasure at having to go back to the church, and finally gave it up as a great lassitude began to steal over her. She repeated his name to herself and thought it suited him. It was a dark, cold sort of name, and she wondered what the other initial stood for. It was the same as her own, M. Shelton - Maggy Shelton. But that's not me, thought Maggy, and fell asleep. She slept like a child all the way up to London, and her unconscious head presently rested on Garth's shoulder. He glanced down at her with passing curiosity. She must be very tired to sleep like that; very

tired and very young. Her face held the touching defencelessness of all sleeping creatures, and for a moment he knew a weight of responsibility for this day's work. His own life was done, but hers was just beginning. Their association could riot at the best be for very long, but in marrying her he had altered the whole course of her existence. He moved impatiently and she opened her eyes. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said, and shrank into her corner of the can "Have I slept all the way?" "You probably needed it," he replied briefly; and reflected that there was little need to feel responsible. The girl's future was at least assured. He would see his lawyer as soon as he was back at Floyne. He saw with relief that the car had turned into Dover Street and was drawing up at the quiet hotel where Doolan had booked rooms for the night. The journey had tired him. Maggy, glancing at his aloof face, sighed. The forgotten suitcase loomed in her mind as the height of inefficiency .'It was a bad start. She stood irresolutely on the pavement while the chair was unstrapped from the back of the car, and the hotel porter waited discreetly to give Doolan a hand. She felt instinctively that Garth disliked being watched when he was lifted into his chair. He spoke as if directly in answer to her thoughts. "Go into the hotel and register, Maggy, I shall go straight to my room," he said, and she turned and passed in through the swing doors and up to the reception desk. "Yes, madam?" The reception clerk was impersonally courteous, but she became all at once acutely conscious of her old mackintosh, the

shabby fejt hat - a relic of rectory days — and the beige frock which had seemed the most suitable garment in which to be married. "My — my husband" - she so nearly said "employer" — "hooked rooms for tonight. Shelton." "Mr. Shelton? Oh, yes." The clerk's eyebrows shot up for a fraction of a second. Garth was evidently known here. But the faint surprise had gone from the clerk's eyes as he handed Maggy a pen and invited her to register. For an awful moment she wondered what to write. Should the names be separate or together? She glanced surreptitiously at the registrations above, and carefully wrote, "Mr. and Mrs. G. M. Shelton, Casde Floyne, Ireland." She didn't know the county, and wondered a little hysterically what the impassive clerk's reaction would be if she were to say, "I'm sorry, but I don't know the name of the county in which I live." The appearance of Garth and Doolan saved her from further wild reflections. Garth was saying to the smiling manager: "This is Mrs. Shelton. I believe our rooms are ready for us," and they were conducted to a couple of adjoining rooms on the first floor. The door between the two rooms stood invitingly open, and Garth asked Maggy which she would prefer-to have. While she was still stammering that she didn't mind, the porter brought in the luggage and stood waiting to be told where to put it. "Leave mine in here for the moment, and put Mrs. Shelton's next door," Garth said, and the porter turned to Maggy. "Which is madam's?" he enquired. Maggy wished the floor would open and swallow her up. She looked helplessly at Garth and said in a small voice: "I haven't got any."

He looked surprised, then frowned and dismissed the man with a curt nod. "Haven't you even brought anything for the night?" he asked her impatiently. She explained about the suitcase, feeling miserably inefficient as she did so. "The Imperial is going to send on my trunk as soon as they have an address," she finished apologetically. "I haven't got very much." "Well, it doesn't matter. You'll have to see what you can do in an afternoon. You'll need clothes anyway — good country clothes." He seemed for the first time aware of the mackintosh and its shabby accompaniments, and eyed her with irritable concentration. "You'd better go to Bromley and Davis. My sister has an account there, and they know me." "Your sister?" She had thought that he had no relatives. "Yes. I'll give you a note for them. Get whatever you think necessary and put it down. They'll know what you need." "Oh, but - I only need a nightdress and a toothbrush and a sponge," protested Maggy. "I can wait for my clothes till my trunk comes. Mrs. Smythe-Gibson only bought me anything if it was absolutely necessary." He began to look a little weary of the whole discussion. "This situation is a little different, and I am not Mrs. SmytheGibson," he said shortly. "Doolan should have reminded me."

He wheeled himself over to the writing table and began scratching a note to Bromley and Davis, while Maggy stood uncomfortably and watched him.

It was the strangest day Maggy had ever known. Already it seemed as if some other girl had stood in that ugly little church and been married to a crippled stranger. It was not Maggy Crayle who had arrived at that exclusive hotel without any luggage, and signed the register in an unfamiliar name, and who now sat in a Regent-street tea-shop, staring at her new wedding ring. Garth was remaining in his room until the evening, gathering strength for the tedious journey the following day, and rather than lunch alone under the inquisitive eye of the maitre d'hotel, Maggy had sought the anonymous refuge of a tea-shop, where she ordered a poached egg on toast and a cGp of coffee. In her bag Garth's note reposed, together with twenty pounds, handed to her by Doolan for "taxis an' sich-like expenses." She sat there, staring at her ring, and remembering it was her wedding day. Doolan had bought the ring, bringing a selection for Maggy to try. Doolan had arranged everything - Maggy felt, with a nervous grin, that she had married him and not Garth, and wondered again what the lugubrious Irishman privately thought of the affair. At last, reluctantly, she left the friendly shelter of the tea-shop and walked unwillingly to the imposing portals of Bromley and Davis, whose windows she had gazed into in rectory days, but whose doors she had never entered in her life. She had no faith in Garth's peremptory command to buy what she needed and charge it to him. Very conscious of her own shabbiness she faced the haughty stare of the chief saleswoman and braced herself for polite dismissal.

But the charm worked. Feeling a little dazed, Maggy found herself Swept into a fitting room, the humble mackintosh removed and hung carefully on a hanger as if it had been mink, while two girls ran backwards and forwards under the sales- woman's direction bringing frocks, suits, coats, lingerie, and displaying them in bewildering succession. "I - I really don't know. There seems so much to choose from." Maggy looked a little helplessly at the sleek saleswoman who raised her eyebrows for a moment and looked amused. "Will you allow me to make a few suggestions, modom?" she said crisply. With Maggy's thankful acquiescence she consulted Garth's note again, then began swiftly to make her selections. Maggy wriggled in and out of garments until her hair was in wild disorder ; she was fitted and pinned and measured and finally treated like any tailor's dummy. The saleswoman soon ceased consulting a customer who plainly had so few ideas on sartorial matters, or such little interest. She was a strange customer altogether, this shy little girl with the impossible clothes; not the sort of sister-in-law one would expect the correct Mrs. Moore to have. Still, the Shelton money was there, and properly dressed, well - you never could tell. "Not beige," said Maggy suddenly, pointing to a camel hair coat. It was the only opinion she expressed in the whole afternoon. Once she said in rather alarmed tones: "But I don't need all these things. My - my - Mr. Shelton only wanted me to have something suitable for the country." The saleswoman smiled, but looked a little surprised.

"I'm only carrying out Mr. Shelton's instructions, modom. Something for every occasion, he says," she replied, and Maggy subsided. She was aware that the woman found her dull and disinterested and knew that this sudden acquisition of expensive clothes should have proved a thrill rather than an embarrassment, but she struggled back at length into her own badly fitting frock, feeling thankfully: this is me again. She did wish, however, for the sake of the hotel staff, that she could have walked away in a new joat instead of her old mackintosh. "Alas!" The saleswoman spread her hands. "Modom is so slight everything must be altered. Now the little beige coat fits perfectly if modom —" "No," said Maggy decidedly, "I'll wait." She was ushered out of the fitting room towards the lifts with satisfied smiles. "I trust Mrs. Moore is keeping well?" "I don't know-who is she?" said Maggy absently. The saleswoman's expression was this time unmistakable. "I understand that Mrs. Moore was modom's sister-in-law," she said frigidly. Maggy felt her cheeks grow hot. "Oh - I - I didn't catch the name," she stammered, and added naively: "You see, I haven't met her yet." The saleswoman's face resumed its smooth mask. A bride, or perhaps just the other thing — was that the answer? In either case an

unsatisfactory customer from anything but the commercial point of view. Murmuring her thanks, Maggy fled into the waiting lift and was borne downwards with a speed that seemed to suck her inside out through the top of her head. Carrying one of her new nightdresses in a paper bag, she proceeded to the perfumery department to buy washing materials and a hair-brush, after which she looked for a small attache case in which to put them. But the products of Bromley and Davis were all too expensive. She went to Marks and Spencer and bought one for thirty shillings. The rain had stopped, and she boarded a bus for Piccadilly and walked from there back to the hotel. Back in her own room, Maggy wondered what she had better do next. The communicating door was shut now, and she could hear the intermittent murmur of Garth's Voice talking to Doo- lan in the next room. Should she knock and enquire as to whether she should start her duties as companion? She Washed her hands and combed her hair, eyed the communicating door doubtfully, then went out into the corridor to approach his room by the other door. But before she could knock, Doolan came quietly out. "The master will not be coming down again this day, ma'am," he said in his soft voice. "He bade me say should you be wanting anything, would you be ordering it, an' he will be seein' you in the morning. The cyar will be here at seven-thirty sharp for the station." "Oh, I see," said Maggy a little helplessly. "Is there nothing I can do for Mr. Shelton?" She thought Doolan looked slightly scandalised. "No, ma'am, there is not," he said decidedly, and Maggy, feeling snubbed, went hastily downstairs.

She sat in the hushed and rather gloomy lounge until dinner time, looking at endless Punchs and Spheres, and feeling rather as if she was in a dentist's waiting room. The room began to fill about halfpast six and expensive-looking dowagers and equally expensivelooking families up from the country sat about drinking sherry and talking in low tones. One weather-beaten looking lady of indeterminate age sat alone, drinking double whiskies while she perused a copy of Horse and Hound and shot appraising glances at Maggy from a pair of faded but very penetrating blue eyes. Dinner proved rather an embarrassment. Garth Shelton was evidently a valued client. The maitre d'hotel himself hovered over Maggy's table and she sat alone, feeling very self-conscious in her unbecoming, ill-fitting dress. A waiter brought a bottle of champagne packed in ice in a silver bucket and opened it with much ceremony. "Oh, but I didn't order wine," protested Maggy uncomfortably. The maitre d'hotel hurried up. "Mr. Shelton's manservant left instructions, madam," he said smoothly. Maggy watched the golden bubbles with alarm and wondered if Doolan had told them she was only married today. She had never tasted champagne, and speculated a little fearfully as to how many glasses would go to one's head. After the second she decided that she had better stop. She was feeling better and less conspicuous, but the prickling in her nose had ascended to the top of her head. It was probably a sign. She gazed round the room with new confidence, and reminded herself with surprise that only last night she had been dining with Mrs. Smythe-Gibson, wearing the hated beige dress, and her glasses. Well, she still wore the dress, but soon she could throw it away, the

glasses might repose indefinitely in her shabby handy bag if he chose. Her champagne glass seemed to have got itself mysteriously filled again. Gh, well, thought Maggy, one shouldn't waste good wine, and drank it off at a draught. She was surprised to find when she got up to leave the dining' room that her legs felt as peculiar as her head, but she clutched her handbag firmly under her arm, and made her way with dignity back to the lounge. Here there was nothing to do but look at more Punches until bedtime. This she did conscientiously, but the print and even the pictures danced about alarmingly. Perhaps Mrs. Smythe-Gibson was right, and she did need her glasses for reading after all. Maggy fished in her hag and put them on. Things were certainly clearer, but they still refused to keep still. A voice suddenly saying: "Have a bullseye," made her jump. She looked up and found the woman with Horse and Hound was sitting near her and holding out a sticky paper bag. "Thank you," said Maggy politely, and took one. "New arrival?" asked the owner of the bull's-eyes. Maggy nodded, her cheek bulging. "Staying long?" "Till tomorrow," said Maggy, and began to shrink into herself again. She saw the faded, inquisitive eyes looking Curiously at her new wedding ring. To Maggy it looked aggressively new' and shining. She crunched desperately in silence, bracing herself for the next awkward question. "You remind me of a filly I once owned," the elderly woman said abruptly. "Green, shy, but with possibilities - oh, yes, distinct possibilities that filly had. She died of strangles."

"Oh," said Maggy blankly, and wondered what strangles could be. It sounded very uncomfortable. "Where's your husband?" suddenly demanded her inquisitor. Maggy blinked. "Upstairs," she said truthfully, and decided almost immediately that she must go to bed. "Good-night," she said politely. "Thank you for the bulls-eye." "Extraordinary !" remarked the woman, and popped another bullseye into her mouth. Maggy found that by walking very carefully in a direct line she could proceed without disaster, but although she was still aware of unfamiliar sensations in her legs and head, the feeling of elation had evaporated. It was only a quarter to nine, but there was nothing to do now but go to bed. She undressed quickly, put on the new nightdress, and got into bed, remembering too late that her hot water botde also reposed with the suitcase behind a church pillar. She switched out her bedside light and lay listening to the late traffic roaring down Piccadilly. A thin pencil of light showed under the communicating door. Garth was still awake. All at once Maggy felt very sorry for herself. After all, it was her wedding night. She would like to have looked in and said good-night. She lay between the cold linen sheets, twisting the unfamiliar ring round her finger while the tears came with a rush. Then just as suddenly, her eyelids were heavy in the darkness and she was asleep.

CHAPTER IV To Maggy, unrefreshed from her heavy sleep, the long journey seemed interminable, and she wondered how Garth could stand it. She privately thought it madness for a sick man to attempt such a journey in one day, but he gave little sign of discomfort save a growing irritability when he spoke, which was rare, and he plainly suffered no pain. Maggy had a disconcerting sense of being unreal. She was no longer an individual, but merely a part of Garth's luggage trailing in the wake of his wheelchair from train to boat, from boat to car. But as she leaned over the rail on deck, watching the English shore recede, she experienced her first realisation of what she had done. She was being borne away from all she had ever known by a stranger to a strange country, and as long as life held them together there was no escape. Panic rose in her, so that she prevented herself with difficulty from shouting: "Stop the boat I Let me go back!" Suddenly becoming aware of being watched, she turned to find Garth looking at her with a curious expression, and reluctantly she went and sat behind him in a vacant deck chair. "Regretting your decision?" he remarked sardonically. "How did you know?" she asked, startled into honesty. "You have a revealing face. For a moment all the panic in the world was there." "Perhaps it was only natural," she said defensively. "All this is very new to me." "It's not for long," he said, curtly, indifferently.

The crossing was bad. Garth was apparently unmoved, but Maggy, meeting her first experience of the sea, knew with a sinking heart that she was a bad sailor. That, she thought desperately, would be the final indignity, to be ill under the chilling eyes of this remote stranger. He spoke without looking at her. "There's a cabin booked for me. I won't be using it. You'd better go down." "But oughtn't you to rest?" she asked faintly. "Do as you're told." His tone was sharp. "Yes, Mr. Shelton," she said automatically, and struggled to her feet. She was aware of his exasperation as she rose, and hastily adding: "Garth," fled along the deck. She lay in his cabin, listening to the creaking of the boat, and muttering to herself: "Garth, Garth...I'll never remember ..." and wishing she could swiftly sink to the bottom of the sea. She must have slept a little, for when she next became conscious of thought, she was aware the motion of the ship was steadier and a steward was telling her that they would be in in twenty minutes. She splashed cold water on her face, and feeling rather like a disembodied spirit, went up on deck. She thought Doolan looked at her with disapproval, but Garth said: "Feeling better? " and when she replied that she was, nodded briefly. "Think you can stand a four-hour car trip on top of this?" "If you can stand it, I can," she retorted with spirit, and he raised his eyebrows.

"No feeling in your legs seems to produce much the same result elsewhere," he remarked, and took no further notice of her. Maggy looked steadily ahead to where the Wicklow Hills rose from the sea in a thin veil of misty rain. This was Ireland, the country of which she knew nothing, that improvident land of rain and bogs, of horses and fairies, of potatoes and the curse of Cromwell. Gulls rose screaming from the water as they made Dunlaoghaire harbour, and following Doolan and the wheelchair down the gangway, Maggy stepped 'on to Irish soil and heard for the first time the sound of Irish voices. They waited their turn at the Customs, and she listened to the confused babble of talk which rose on all sides. Heated discussions flared between passengers and Customs Officers, which, just as Maggy was expecting a free fight, dissolved into the utmost amiability. Jests and naive curiosity as to the contents of trunks and suitcases raised much appreciative laughter and Maggy nervously began to wonder how her meagre nightdress, toothbrush and sponge would fare at the hands of these flippant young men. But the official who dealt with them took one loot at Garth's wheelchair, exclaimed piously: "Och - God help ye, sor!" and immediately marked their unopened luggage with chalk. A closed Daimler waited for them outside, and the driver, a redhaired young man in dirty tweeds, shook Garth by the hand. "Welcome back, Mr. Shelton, sor," he said with a wide grin. "An' you not on your two feet yet ! Isn't that an ould ladies' contraption to be gallivantin' arround in, now? Will I -give ye a hand with the liftin', Pat Doolan?" Maggy's eyes widened at this unfamiliar form of address and she looked a little anxiously at Garth. But he merely nodded, made some reply to the young driver, and waited with quiet indifference to be

lifted into the car. The young man regarded Maggy with frank curiosity as she got in beside Garth, and to her shy thanks as he threw a rug over her knees, he replied: " 'Tis nothing at all, miss. The English feel the could, God help them!" She wondered if this odd young man could be Garth's chauffeur and if, later, she would have to explain to him that she was Garth's wife. Garth himself offered no explanation to either of them, and watching his dark profile for some sign of pleasure at returning ,to his own country, she could find none. The, cold indifferent mask she had become familiar with in England showed no hint of warmth or interest, and he paid little attention to his surroundings, but stared straight ahead. He was right, thought Maggy with her first hint of impatience. No feeling in his legs produced no feeling in his heart or head. She was still conscious of the effects of the crossing, but she looked with eagerness out of the window. The Georgian rosiness of Dublin was a fleeting glimpse and soon their road settled down endlessly to a vista of spreading moors, a bright glint of emerald bog, the gleam of loch water, and hills rising gently to the grey, misty sky. A land of half-lights, perhaps of fairies, thought Maggy, shut away alone in a delight that was a little fearful. How beautiful they are, the lordly ones who dwell in the Mils, the hollow hills.... Unlike English servants, Doolan and the driver kept up a flow of talk, and Maggy wished she could sit in front and ask the red-haired young man questions. Once she asked Garth where they were going and immediately the chatter in front ceased. Garth frowned, as aware as Maggy was of the driver's interest. "Galway - the west coast,'' he replied briefly.

The driver's back was expressive. Maggy had an instant impression that he knew by now she was Garth's wife without any idea of where her husband lived. Presently it grew too dark to see the countryside, and she closed her eyes, experiencing a returning hint of sickness. It seemed hours later that they stopped at some town for dinner. Garth sent Maggy into a hotel for some food, but he remained in the car himself and had a tray brought out to him. As she sat in the half-empty dining-room eating a badly-cooked meal, .Maggy thought: ever since I was married, I've been sitting in strange hotels by myself. Depression gripped her. She knew an overwhelming nostalgia for the ugly London rectory, even for the oppressive Imperial and Mrs. Smythe-Gibson's nagging demands. A wireless set was delivering a long peroration in Erse to which no one paid the smallest attention, and Maggy had great difficulty in understanding her waiter's rich brogue. She stood on the steps of the hotel for a moment, grateful for fresh damp air on her face. Doolan and the driver emerged from the saloon, arguing amicably. "An' what kind of a quare wan is that who wouldn't be knowin' where her own husband lives?" "Houd ye whisht, Micky Flynn! Would ye be knowin' the ways of the quality, an' you from a cabin in the Black Bog?" "I would not. The quality has quare notions entirely, so they have." Maggy hurried back to the car with hot cheeks and hoped the driver, hadn't seen her. He had, but he was quite unembarrassed. "Och, a bite has put life into ye, ma'am! Sure, the sickness was laid on ye, an' you off the boat," he remarked cheerfully.

and shut her into the darkness of the car. "Aren't you very tired!"' Maggy asked Garth, aware all at once of her own weariness. "I'm used to it," he said ambiguously, then added in gentler tones: "Try and sleep, Maggy. We've another two hours in front of us yet. It's been a long journey for you." "The longest I've ever made," she said, and thought he smiled in the darkness. She did sleep a little and awoke later to the sound of rain lashing against the windows of the car. What she could see of the country looked wild and strange and the wind was rising. The road now was very bad. Maggy heard the driver curse as he tried unsuccessfully to avoid the.worst pot-holes. She thought the jolting must be well-nigh unbearable for the sick man, but he made no complaint and presently the car turned in through a pair of vast gate-posts which seemed suddenly to loom out of nothing, and a long, treeless drive stretched before them in the headlights. Maggy saw the massive irregular outline of a house spring to meet them, and the twin beams from the car caught the gaunt unlighted windows for a moment as they swept in a curve before the porch. As Doolan with his familiar dexterity lifted his master into the wheelchair, the heavy front door swung open and a woman stood on the threshold holding a lamp above her head.. The wind caught the flame making the lamp flare, and Maggy had a brief impression of a pale, watchful face and very bright, avid eyes. "Will you wheel the master in instead of lavin' him out in that storm, Pat Doolan," she said sharply. "I can wheel myself in," Garth replied. »"How are you, Duffy?"

"It isn't meself who is sick, Mr. Shelton, sir," she retorted. "Let me take a look at you. Is this all those fine English doctors could do for you? Och — you're destroyed entirely!" It seemed an odd sort of greeting to Maggy, but Garth appeared to think it quite normal, and even gave the woman one of his rare smiles. Maggy thought he looked very exhausted, and his sallow skin had the appearance of parchment. She-stood just inside the dimly lighted hall which seemed to stretch endlessly away into the shadows, and smelt the first bitter sweet smell of burning turf. A fire glowed on a big open hearth and the flames played on dim portraits and a profusion of panelling in black bog oak. She was so tired that she was aware of only one thing at a time, and the strange new scent of the turf fire was still occupying her Senses when she heard Garth say: "This is my wife, Duffy. Maggy, this is Mrs. Duffy who runs the house for us." Maggy became aware that the woman was looking at her with a curious expression. Surprise, perhaps a hint of patronage - she was too tired to know which. She held her hand out shyly. "How do you do," she said. The housekeeper's face became watchful again. "How do you do, ma'am," she said respectfully, and the careless brogue was somehow dimmed as she spoke to Maggy. "May I wish you every happiness on behalf of meself and the staff?" "Thank you," said Maggy, and suddenly wanted to cry. She had an absurd conviction that this woman knew she was only a paid

employee like herself; that although she was prepared to enter into this idle farce she was not for one moment fooled. The door had been shut upon the red-haired driver, and Doolan was piling the luggage in the hall. "You'll be wanting to go straight to your room, sor," he said quietly. "Mrs. Duffy will have prepared it downstairs as you ordered." "I'll be takin' Mrs. Shelton up, then," the housekeeper said. "Will you fetch up the luggage when you have the master settled, Doolan?" "Och, ye can be carryin' it yerself, Mrs. Duffy, 'tis but this weeshly cyardboard wan," said Doolan, and Mrs. Duffy picked up Maggy's case from Marks and Spencer with polite amazement. "Is this all ye have, ma'am?" she asked, and Maggy felt too weary to explain. She stood, hesitating, looking at Garth, but he was already turning his chair round. "Good-night, Maggy," he said in just the tones he had always used on the terrace of the Imperial, and it was with an effort that she stopped herself replying from force of habit: "Good night, Mr. Shelton." "Good-night," she said, and followed Mrs. Duffy up the stairs and into the unknown shadows above.

She slept the deep, dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion and for a moment upon waking, couldn't remember where she was. A young girl in a blue print dress was drawing the heavy brocaded curtains. An early morning tea tray stood On a table beside the bed.

Maggy raised herself on one elbow, blinking in the morning light, and the girl turned and stood regarding her with frank curiosity. "Good mornin', ma'am," she said in a soft voice, and at sight of Maggy, small and bewildered in the vast four-poster bed, her fine, Irish, eyes opened widely. "Sure, the ould woman was right and 'tis a child ye are," she said with the unconscious familiarity of her race. Maggy pushed the long hair back from her face, feeling awkward. This, she supposed was one of the upstairs maids, and officially at least, Maggy was the new mistress. "What'syour name?" she asked shyly. • "Bridgit Connolly. Drink the tay, now, before the strength is on it. The ould woman says the English like coloured wather from the pot." "Thank you, Bridgit." Maggy sat up and obediently stretched out her hand for the teapot. "Will I bring up your breakfast? The master will not fee about this day." "Oh, no, I'll come down." Maggy remembered the storm of last night. "Is it fine?" "Och - 'tis a soft day," said Bridgit encouragingly, and went reluctantly out of the room. It was the first time that Maggy had ever been brought morning tea in bed, and she sat propped against a great mound of pillows, sipping the tea and gazing curiously at her surroundings. Last night by lamp and candle light the room had seemed enormous. Heavily carved presses and tallboys had appeared lost in the shadows, and the bed itself, vast and canopied, was a small island on its raised wooden dais, with two steps up to facilitate the business of getting in and out.

By daylight, proportions fell into place, but the room had a sombre air. Rugs of dark faded pattern covered the black oak floor, and the bed hangings and curtains were the colour of old claret. The bed itself boasted many mattresses, the top one of which was of goose feathers, and Maggy felt like the princess in the fairy tale who could not sleep for the pea which lay underneath. Her tea finished, she climbed with difficulty out of the bed and ran across to the window, curious to see what lay outside Castle Floyne. The wind had dropped, but a fine rain was falling almost silently, blotting out the distance in mist. Was this, then, the meaning of Bridgit's soft day? Maggy's room was at the back of the house, and below her, it seemed almost directly, there lay a great expanse of water. The far shore was only just visible through the mist, and seemed to fade into an outline of low, rugged hills. The house must be built at the end of the loch, for to the right the moorland rose in an unbroken sweep so far as the eye could see, and somewhere beyond must lie the sea, for Maggy could just hear the rhythmic roll of waves on a rocky coast. A wild country, and a strange, alarming people.... Maggy shivered in the damp chill of the October morning, and slipping her old mackintosh over her nightgown, went into the corridor to prospect for the bathroom. She always remembered her first day at Floyne as one of the longest she had ever spent. Mrs. Duffy was waiting in the hall to take her to the breakfast-room, and while Maggy ate she stood by the door in an attitude of respectful meekness and awaited her orders. "I was to say, ma'am, that the master is keeping to his room today, and would you be stating your wishes, please." Maggy looked alarmed.

"There isn't anything I want, thank you, Mrs. Duffy," she said hurriedly. "You will be takin' over the runnin' of the house, no doubt, ma'am, so I will hand over the keys and explain my system." The housekeeper's voice sounded tight and, as when she had addressed Maggy the night before, her brogue was more controlled. Maggy looked at her quickly. Was this one of the duties which Garth expected of her? But no, he had distinctly said Mrs; Duffy ran the house. It would never do to offend the housekeeper without more definite instructions. "Did Mr. Shelton discuss that with you?" she asked timidly. The woman gave her a glance of suspicious curiosity, and Maggy knew that she was thinking it odd that a new wife shouldn't know her husband's wishes in such matters. "I have had no opportunity of speaking with the master," she said stiffly. "Until Doolan's telegram four days ago, nary a wan knew he was married." Maggy's heart sank, and she thought: Gh, dear! She's going to resent me. "I think it's much better that you should carry on as before," she said hastily. "I'm sure Mr. Shelton wouldn't want things any different." She smiled tentatively, but there was no response in the housekeeper's face. "Just as you say, ma'am. Likely as not you would not be understanding Irish ways. If you will please ring when you've finished an' I will bring in the staff."

She spoke rather as if she intended to bring in a head on a charger, thought Maggy in dismay, and she finished her breakfast with a dwindling appetite. It took her nearly five minutes to make up her mind to pull the frayed old-fashioned bell-rope by the fireplace, but finally .reminding herself severely that her position at Floyne was much the same as her position at the Imperial Hotel and she had a job to do, she pulled the bell-rope, and then stood in front of the fireplace and nervously awaited the coming of the staff. On the whole they were kindly-looking servants, though with the exception of little Bridgit Connolly none of them was young. The indoor staff consisted of four maids and the cook, a large comfortable woman with untidy grey hair called Mary Kate. They returned Maggy's halting greetings with a faint but not unpleasing reserve, but all five stared at her with unconcealed inquisitiveness, and on all their faces as they filed out of the room again was the same look of tolerant surprise. They know what I am and despise me, thought Maggy, used by now to servants' reactions to paid companions. It never occurred to her that, ignorant of the true status of her marriage, the combination of their master's crippled state and her own evident youth must produce a natural curiosity in anyone with whom she came into contact. Mrs. Duffy still remained. "When it's convenient, ma'am, I will show you over the house," she said. "Oh, don't bother, Mrs. Duffy, I like exploring," Maggy replied unthinkingly. That might be fun, discovering Floyne for herself, and something to do this rainy day. Mrs. Duffy's tight voice returned.

"As you please, ma'am. Floyne is a big house," she said expressionlessly. "I'll call on you for help if I get lost," Maggy said, but the housekeeper was offended and went out of the room without another word. Maggy spent the morning exploring. As Mrs. Duffy had said, Floyne was a big house, and although Maggy didn't actually lose herself, she was continually being confronted by unexpected passages, dark twisting stairs, and rooms plainly unlived in and their furniture shrouded in dust sheets. In these dim rooms, with the grey light from outside filtering through drawn venetian blinds, Maggy had again the sensation of living in a fairy tale. She lifted covers to touch old faded brocades and fine woods dull for want of polish, and wondered if there had ever been a time when Floyne had been a house filled with voices and laughter. Downstairs she wandered through the silent reception rooms and thought what a strange setting they were for so young a man. They were all huge rooms with old-fashioned and often beautiful] pieces of furniture, but there was nothing anywhere to denote the changing taste of a later generation. Garth probably had his own study which would show evidence of his personal preferences, but here in these dignified, empty rooms there was nothing that had not been there half a century ago. How queer, thought Maggy, tip-toeing through the rooms rather like a child fearing discovery; it's as though the house has absorbed him into its own personality, and yet he isn't really old. She stood gently fingering the yellow notes of the grand piano which stood in the drawing-room. Here at least was future delight in store, but although her fingers itched with the desire to try the instrument, she didn't dare to on this very first day. For the same reason she avoided the stone-flagged passage which led to other rooms at the back of the hall. Somewhere down that passage Garth's bedroom lay,

but she didn't like to prospect further since she had no idea which room it was. Lunch was laid for her in the breakfast-room, and she was thankful not to have to sit in solitary state in the vast, chilly dining room. Afterwards she put on her mackintosh and went out into the rain to explore the grounds. There seemed to be no definitely planned garden, a peculiarity she was to find of many Irish country houses; only a great expanse of lawn which dropped gently to the waters of the loch, and in front of the house open grassland which' was bounded from the road by low iron railings. "I never in all my life," said Maggy aloud, "saw such a treeless place." But there were trees on the other side of the house, Irish yews planted like sentinels along a paved terrace, and down by the loch, willow and rowan hung their drooping branches in the rain. The brilliant orange of the rowan berries seemed to Maggy the only splash of colour in that grey day. By tea-time she had the uncomfortable feeling that she was not earning her keep. So far she had idled away the day and had not Begun to think of what her duties were going to be. She would like to have enquired for Garth, but didn't care to question Mrs. Duffy or one of the maids, who would presume she would be acquainted with the state of her husband's health. She never saw Doolan, and it didn't occur to her to send for him. Mrs. Duffy made no further appearance that day and had presumably retired in umbrage to her own quarters, and Maggy sat by the turf fire in the silent library and wondered what to do next. It was Doolan who sought her out in the end, and she felt quite pleased at the sight of his familiar, lugubrious face.

"How is Mr. Shelton?" she asked quickly. "Not so well today, ma'am, the journey tired him," he said. "He bade me say that he hopes Mrs. Duffy is lookin' after ye and he'll likely be keepin' to his room tomorrow." "Is there nothing I can do?" Maggy asked a little helplessly. "I mean would he like to be read to - or - or anything?" "He's best left quiet," Doolan said primly. "Rest aisy, ma'am, I'll be kapin' you informed." There was nothing more to be said. Maggy had her dinner at eight o'clock, and at half-past nine she lighted her candle and went up to her vast feather bed. ,

On the third day the rain stopped, and Maggy set out early meaning to walk across the moor and find the sea. Garth was still keeping to his room, and so far there had been no summons for Maggy. She sometimes wondered if he was worse than Doolan led her to suppose, but no doctor had been summoned to Floyne and there was no hint in the servants' manner that there was grave illness in the house. Mrs. Duffy went about her duties as usual, and if she thought it odd that Maggy never visited her husband she made no sign. But little Bridgit was young; she was also new to Floyne, and Maggy sensed the puzzlement and curiosity behind the girl's enquiries for the master's health. Bridgit, at least, must think the new mistress's apparent lack of interest both strange and unnatural. The whole situation, thought Maggy, plodding with unaccustomed feet through the strong, springy heather, was strange and unnatural now that she had leisure to think about it. Her position at Floyne was

utterly false, and she was beginning to wonder «what possible duties as a companion could justify the step she had taken. When he's about again, she told herself with determination, there'll be things to do, letters to write, reading aloud; perhaps estate accounts, only I'm not very good at figures. And she wondered again what her father would have thought of the affair, and Ellen. She must write to Ellen and tell her of her marriage, and as she pictured the surprise and probably satisfaction with which the old servant would receive the news, Maggy's eyes filled with tears. Dear Ellen with her years of stern devotion to the Crayles; Ellen with her rigid views of right and wrong. Would she approve if she should know the truth? Maggy reached the highest point of the moor and climbed a curious rock formation to look at the view. From here the browny-green ground sloped steeply away in little ridges and hummocks, slipping eventually into the rocky cliffs which dropped to the sea. Far in the distance, beyond the blueness of Gal- way Bay, the Islands of Aran lay like some mythical monster half in and half out of the water. Maggy had never imagined such solitude. Not a human dwelling was to be seen for miles, and she turned to look behind her to where Floyne lay sprawled in grey isolation by the little loch that Bridgit had called Lough Sidhe, which meant the fairy loch. A wild desolate country, thought Maggy, beginning to retrace her steps, and wishing for the hundredth time since she had arrived that she had worn anything else but Mrs. Smythe- Gibson's beige dress in which to be married. An afternoon frock, however drab and ugly, was utterly unsuited for Irish country mornings, and the hem was already soaked and draggled from her walk across the moor. There was a car standing empty in front of the house, and Maggy hesitated, suddenly panic-stricken. Callers! There had been callers yesterday whom she had managed to avoid, but this was lunch-time.

She crept into the house and made a dash for the stairs, but not before she had seen Mrs. Duffy in close conversation with a tall dark woman through the open door of the breakfast room. "Here is Mrs. Shelton," she heard the housekeeper say, and, still unused to being referred to by this name, was about to leap up the stairs with all speed when the stranger advanced into the hall. "Well!" she said, and stood staring at Maggy with thick, raised eyebrows. Maggy stood staring back like a child caught running away and for a moment neither of them spoke, then the other woman said with a faint note of patronage in her brisk voice: "I'm Eunice Moore. How d'ye do?" Maggy looked blank. 'I'm afraid I — I don't know who you are," she stammered. Someone should at least have acquainted her With the names of possible neighbours. The thick dark eyebrows drew together in a frown which was faintly reminiscent. "I'm Garth's sister," she said shortly. "Don't tell me you didn't know he had a sister!" Maggy felt acutely embarrassed. The only person who had briefly alluded to the existence of Mrs. Moore had been the saleswoman of Bromley and Davis, and Maggy had completely forgotten. "Of course, how stupid of me!" she said quickly, but not quite quickly enough.

"I don't believe you did know!" Eunice said, and her eyes flickered oyer Maggy with unflattering curiosity. "Oh, well, until a few days ago we didn't know Garth had acquired a wife. Duffy insisted that I stay for lunch. I hope you don't mind." Maggy had the impression that it wouldn't have mattered if she did mind, but she said with difficulty: "I'm very pleased. Will you excuse me while I go and tidy?" Mrs. Duffy, presumably in honour of the stranger, had ordered lunch to be served in the dining-room, and Maggy sat at the head of the long polished table in a state of miserable shyness. She found her sister-in-law both alarming and formidable, and although the conversation consisted only of banalities while the servants were in the room, she was aware of a .purposeful curiosity and something else besides behind the abrupt questions and answers. Eunice Moore was a domineering and not very imaginative woman who all her life had liked to rule. She had been unable to rule either her father or her brother, so had turned her attentions eventually to Johnny Moore, a doctor with a growing practice in Galway who had been in love with her since she was seventeen. She had hoped for a more worldly match than Johnny, but although handsome, she had succeeded in driving most men away by her manner, and when she had passed the age of thirty she had been glad to take Johnny, whose devotion had never wavered. If, during the ten years since their marriage, his hopes had settled into gentle tolerance, she was unaware of it. She was still ambitious for her husband and her children, and she had for too long confused the force to drive with the force to love to recognise any failure in herself. At forty-one she still thought of herself as Miss Shelton of Castle Floyne rather than Mrs. Johnny Moore, a country doctor's wife. After lunch they went into the library to drink their coffee.

"I see you've made no alterations as yet," Eunice said, glancing about her. "Damn' inconvenient house, isn't it? No electricity, no telephone, indifferent plumbing, and cold as charity. Most Irish houses are the same, only Floyne seems to have more than its share of archaic discomfort." Maggy said nothing. The discomforts of Floyne were no concern of hers. Eunice eyed the girl sitting opposite her in uncomfortable expectancy. That hideous and unsuitable frock could eclipse more beauty than Maggy could ever lay claim to, but the child was a mouse. A little nobody with nothing to say for herself and eyes that were too big for her face. What on earth had possessed Garth? Come to that, in his present condition, what on earth had possessed Maggy? Eunice's cold eyes, so like her brother's, narrowed unpleasantly. Floyne was Floyne even if its master had lost the use of his legs. "Surely you're too young for a nurse," she said with a slight drawl. "A nurse?" Maggy looked surprised. "Oh no, I was never a nurse. What made you think that?" "Rumour had it that my brother had married his nurse. It's quite common, I believe." Maggy looked at Eunice leaning back at ease in her expensive tweeds, and slowly flushed. She knew quite well what the other woman was thinking, but she hadn't supposed she would make her meaning so plain. "Where did you meet him?" "We - we were staying in the same hotel." "Really?" Could she have been "the receptionist?

"Known him long?" "No, not long." Drat the girl! Why couldn't she open up? Eunice knew she would get no more out of her brother than he chose to give, and Duffy with all the will in the world had been unable to offer anything more concrete than gossip and surmise. But Eunice had heard all about the bride's arrival; no clothes, no luggage and no idea of where she was going. "You must forgive my natural curiosity," she said with an artificial little laugh". "You see, the first we knew of the wedding was a wire from Duffy the day you were to return. Just like Garth not to bother to let us know. He was always secretive and high-handed. It was quite a shock - specially in his crippled state, poor dear." "Yes, it must have been," said Maggy quietly. In the midst of her own discomfort it struck her as odd that Eunice had never once asked how her brother was. "Have you seen Garth?" she asked, wondering what version of this awkward marriage he had given. "Not yet. He's not best pleased I'm here at all, I imagine." Eunice's unmirthful little laugh was irritating. "We've never got on, you know. Garth was always remote and a bit dour even before his accident. How did you manage to break him down?" Six months ago, Maggy would have stammered out the whole story with eager guilelessness, but six months with Mrs. Gibson- Smythe had taught her to guard her tongue. Garth was her employer as well as her husband. It was not for her to discuss his affairs with a stranger. "Would you like to see him now? I can ring for Doolan," she said.

Eunice got to her feet looking annoyed. For all her gaucheness, the chit was like a little clam. "Oh, I can find my own way," she said. "I've known this house a good many years, you know. He's downstairs, I presume, in the same room as before?" "I-I suppose so." Eunice's thick eyebrows lifted, "You suppose? But, my dear child, don't you know?" Maggy stood there in the drab beige dress that was too big for her, and felt her courage slipping away. "You see," she explained, "I haven't seen his room since we came here." Eunice laughed and walked towards the door. "Really?" she remarked. "How very odd in a young bide. What must the servants think?" Maggy didn't answer. By this time she knew that the servants thought it very odd indeed. At the door Eunice turned and looked her up and down. "How old are you, Maggy?" she asked. "Nineteen." "Nineteen! Garth must be out of his mind!" she said, and shut the door behind her.

CHAPTER V THAT same day Garth sent for Maggy. Eunice's interview with her brother had lasted a brief half- hour, and when she returned to the library, two bright spots of colour burned in her sallow cheeks. "Trapesing round to English spas doesn't seem to have done him much good," she said angrily to Maggy. "He's still as helpless as ever and his temper certainly hasn't improved." Maggy looked at her with widening eyes. Didn't she know her brother was dying? "He's seen a good many specialists," she said tentatively. "And all told him the same thing," Eunice retorted. "An operation might save him." "It's a risk." "And what's the alternative? A wheelchair for life! Any ordinary man would take a chance, but Garth seems just as indifferent as he was when Johnny persuaded him to go to England. And on top of it all this crazy marriage. It beats me." She pulled on her thick driving gloves viciously and all the irritation and baffled curiosity resulting from that unsatisfactory interview were in her next words to Maggy. "I should have thought you at least would have persuaded him. What did you marry him for, otherwise?" Maggy knew her first spark of anger.

"That decision is entirely up to him," she said quietly. Eunice looked at her with her first show of interest. "H'm. Suits you better the other way, does it?" she said maliciously. "Well, let me tell you this, Maggy. A paralysed husband may have his advantages, but being married to Garth won't be any picnic. He's not the man to stand for gentle dalliance elsewhere, crippled or not. You'll find you've bitten off more than you can chew, my dear." Maggy flung back her head and her colour was as high as Eunice's. "You've no right to speak to trie like that, Mrs. Moore,"she said clearly. "My private life is entirely my own affair, and I don't think you're in any position to judge." Eunice looked at her with surprise, then laughed shortly. "Oh! I can understand the attraction a little better now," she said insolently. "You're not bad looking when you're roused. But for heaven's sake, get yourself some decent clothes, my good child. Don't come out. I'll see myself oft." At the door she paused, and flung back over her shoulder: "What did you marry him for - Floyne?" Through the window, Maggy watched her drive away, and the bitter, angry tears overflowed. How dared the woman stand under her brother's roof and speak like that! With wretched clarity Maggy saw how her marriage must appear to others and she longed with passion to be out of this hateful country and still more hateful house for ever. Five minutes later Doolan appeared with the message from Garth. "Now?" cried Maggy in dismay. "Just a minute, then." She went upstairs to her great, chilly bedroom and splashed her hot face with cold water. She had waited three days for a summons to Garth's room, but this was the last moment she wanted to see him.

"I hate them all!" she told her blurred reflection in the glass. "The Sheltons, brother and sister, and the gossiping servants. You were a fool, Maggy Crayle, if you ever thought you could tackle a job of this kind." She ran a comb through her soft hair which was learning to curl in the humid moorland air, powdered her pink nose with a shaking hand, and went slowly downstairs to Doolan who was waiting for her. His melancholy face creased in a rare smile. "Don't you be mindin' her, ma'am, she upsets us all," he said surprisingly, and for the first time Maggy thought of him as a human being. She followed him down the flagged passage feeling a little calmer, and Doolan knocked on a door and left her. At Garth's reply to the knock, she opened the door and stood hesitating on the threshold. "Come in, Maggy," he said. 'Tm afraid I've been lazy. I should have sent for you before." The room had evidently beep a study, for it still retained its deep chairs, its desk, and its well-filled bookshelves. A bed and a screened-off washstand were the only signs of its change of character and Garth himself was up and sitting in his wheelchair by the fire. Maggy crossed the room and stood looking down at him. "Are you feeling more rested?" she asked gently. "Oh, yes. As I said, I've just been lazy."

He looked at her in silence for a moment or two, and decided there was something different about her. She had been crying, he saw, but there was something else, too. "Sit down and tell me what you think of Ireland," he said. Maggy, still smarting, and careless of her words, replied instantly: "I hate it!" He raised his eyebrows and smiled faintly. "That's bad," he said. "And do you hate Floyne, too?" She remembered that it was not a companion's business to dislike her surroundings. "That isn't of any account," she said prudently. "I'm grateful for the job." He moved his chair a little so that he could watch her better. "What did Eunice say to upset you?" he asked quietly. She shook her head without speaking, then as he seemed to expect an answer of some kind, she said briefly: "I don't think she was very pleased." "That's putting it mildly!" He glanced at her a little curiously. "Discreet, aren't you, like all well-trained companions! I suppose she wanted to know what you married me for. Did you tell her?" "I didn't tell her anything, but she thought of quite a lot of beasdy reasons," Maggy said.

She sat, on the edge of her chair, twisting her wedding ring round with nervous fingers. Looking at her with the firelight playing on her flushed cheeks, and the long, soft hair curving round her neck, he wondered why he had never realised before how young she was. Eunice was right in that. She was a child, and had things been any different he had had no business to marry her. "I'm sorry your first impressions have been so unfortunate," he said gently. "I've been remiss, I'm afraid. I flung you into a new life and gave you no warning of what to expect." "It would have helped to have had a rough idea," she said a little forlornly. "There's been no one to ask about things, you see, and people - the servants ask me things and I don't know the answers." He looked suddenly a little tired. "Yes, I've managed badly," he replied. "But we'll make a better show of things from now on. I'll be dining with you tonight, and tomorrow I'll be about again as usual." "Then I can begin my duties?" said Maggy in relieved tones. "Your duties? Oh, yes, I'll think of something," he said vaguely. "What I really wanted to talk to you about was my own affairs. I haven't said anything to Eunice about the latest verdict on me, and I don't intend to. Johnny - well, Johnny's a different matter - he's a doctor and - I don't know yet. But it's better no one should know. That's our secret, Maggy, and I trust you. As you can see for yourself, we're not a very populated neighbourhood, fortunately. There's bound to be a little talk at first. People will either think you're a designing hussy or I'm a selfish cad, but that doesn't matter very much. Later, it will all be easily explained. In the meantime, I hope you won't find life at Floyne too irksome."

Listening to him, Maggy wanted to weep again. There was an unfamiliar gentleness about him that hurt her, and for the first time she liked him as a man and not as her employer, and she knew that the little Scottish doctor at the Imperial had been right. It was not going to be nice waiting for someone to die — even a stranger. "If I can be of use to you, that's all that will matter," she said simply, and he immediately began to talk of something else. But presently he seemed to weary. The old indifference chilled his face to its familiar remoteness, and Maggy got up to go. It was the longest conversation she had ever had with him. Bat the days which followed were strange and uneasy. She got used in time to the sudden brief appearances of the wheelchair in the downstairs rooms, but the silence of the big house seemed, if anything, to be accentuated. Hie long, silent meals -in the sombre dining-room were at first an agony of embarrassment to Maggy until she realised that half the time Garth was unaware of her presence. He was at all times a silent person, and although she occasionally accompanied him round the grounds, she found he preferred propelling his chair alone in all weathers. He was extremely dexterous with his chair and disliked being waited on in any way. It soon became evident to Maggy that her services as a companion were not required. Garth wrote his own letters and attended personally to such matters arising out of the estate. Mrs. Duffy ran the house and as yet Maggy hadn't even penetrated to the kitchen regions. There was nothing in the world for her to do at Floyne and with each day that went by, she experienced a feeling of guilt. There appeared to be no good reason whatever for her presence in Garth Shelton's household and her tentative offers of help seemed to irritate him.

"Amuse yourself how you like," he said on one occasion. "I'm afraid you must find it dull, but Floyne is very isolated." "But I came here to work - in some sort of capacity," she replied indignantly. For a moment his cold gaze rested on her thoughtfully. "Oh, yes, so you did, Maggy," he said a little helplessly. "Well, later there'll be calls to return - things like that. My social activities are somewhat restricted, but that needn't stop you." People had called; the Lynches from across the loch, the Shannons from Castledrum, and old Lady Rynd driving ten miles in her antique and famous electric brougham. For the most part Maggy had been able to avoid them. She hadn't stopped to think that the calls must be returned. At the end of the first week, Maggy's new clothes began to arrive from London. Mrs. Duffy signed for the gaily striped boxes with compressed lips. It was clear what she thought of a young bride who had arrived without luggage and worn the same unsuitable dress ever since. But Bridgit was as excited as Maggy herself, and each freshly unpacked garment drew further extravagant admiration and frank approval at Maggy's changed appearance. They bent together over frothy layers of tissue paper, their eyes bright with pleasure. It was an event in the quiet routine of Floyne. Maggy herself, who had experienced so little satisfaction in the choosing of her clothes knew her first delight in pretty things. They were the first good clothes she had ever worn and the saleswoman at Bromley and Davis had done her job well. Maggy danced across the floor of her vast, chilly bedroom, and surveyed herself in the oldfashioned cheval glass.

"I look quite nice," she exclaimed in surprise, observing with interest the effect of smoky-blue angora on her eyes. "Sure, ye look a drame of elligence, ma'am, an' as slender as a sally wand that'ud break in two." Bridgit, her hands on her own strong hips, watched approvingly. "A child ye look, an' the master chained to an' ould gintleman's chair, the cray- thure!" Maggy was still unused to the innocent frankness of the Irish, and to hide her embarrassment, she pounced on the old beige frock lying in a discarded heap on the floor. "No one's ever going to wear this again. I shall burn it," she cried, and ran out of the room and down the graceful curving staircase to the hall. The chill silence of Floyne rose to meet her, so that for an instant, she paused, uncertain. No one was about. With a guilty glance over her shoulder, Maggy ran to the fire, and flung the dress on to the glowing turfs. On her knees, she seized the poker and pushed and beat the dress further into the fire, watching with glee the badge of her recent , servitude blacken and smoulder. It was a long time catching, and refused to burn properly, choking the fire and emitting a cloud of acrid smoke. "What on earth are you doing?" asked Garth's voice unexpectedly behind her. Maggy had not yet got used to the sudden silent appearances of the wheelchair, and she jumped, dropping the poker with a clatter. Sitting on her heels, she stared dumbly up at him feeling like a child caught stealing jam. "What are you trying to do?" he repeated curiously. "Set the house on fire?"

"I - I was burning a dress," she stammered, and was immediately appalled at the enormity of such an action. What would Mrs. SmytheGibson, the donor of the dress, say? What would Ellen say at such criminal waste? "Burning a dress?" he said, and looked puzzled. "It was the beige dress - you wouldn't notice - but it was the one Mrs. Smythe-Gibson chose for me. I hated it," Maggy began to explain with childish intensity. "You see the clothes you bought me have come, and so I thought I'd burn the beige dress. I hated it so." "I see," said Garth, looking faintly interested. "Yes, I quite understand." "Do you?" said Maggy eagerly, but Mrs. Duffy had also smelt burning, and she appeared at this moment and demanded severely to know what was going on. "And what," she asked upon being told, "would ye be doin' a thing like that for, ma'am? If ye had no use for the dress yourself, there's many a poor girl would be glad of it." "No one's going to wear that dress again, it does something to you," said Maggy stubbornly. Mrs. Duffy raised her eyebrows and Garth said: "You'd better remove the remains, before they put the fire out, Duffy, and tell Norah to bring tea to the library." Maggy followed Garth's chair into the library and stood beside him looking guilty. "She thought it was awful," she said, and he laughed unexpectedly.

"Duffy could hardly be expected to understand the subtlety of what a garment can do to you," he said With amusement. "You're an odd girl, Maggy. Do you like your new things?" "They're lovely. Thank you very much. I'm afraid they were very expensive," she said anxiously. He surveyed the blue angora critically. "You're terribly young, aren't you, Maggy?" he said softly. "I never realised it at the Imperial. That beige thing, perhaps, and the glasses, and your hair was different." "Mrs. Smythe-Gibson liked me to look like that," said Maggy. "Is it because you think I'm young that you never give me anything to do?" . "What are the duties of a companion?" he asked quizzically. Maggy sat down on a low stool by the fire. "Oh, millions of things," she said. "Reading aloud, writing letters, running errands, packing, unpacking, massaging Mrs. SmytheGibson and doing up her stays. I could think of hundreds." His mouth twitched. "Well, you can hardly dress and undress me, which is about all I can't da for myself," he said gravely. "As for the rest, we won't be gotag away, so there's no packing, and I don't like being read aloud to. You'll have to make the best of it, Maggy." She hugged her knees.

"But I feel so useless," she protested. "You don't really need me at all. I feel - I feel I married you under false pretences." He looked a little tired. "No, my dear, it's I who married you under false pretences," he said with a short sigh. "Are you unhappy?" "Oh, no" she said, sounding shocked. "It's only that I wish I could be doing something useful." He gave her a hunted look. "Well, catalogue the library - that'll keep you busy for some time," he said with sudden inspiration. She looked round at the book-lined walls with doubtful eyes. "But do you want a catalogue?" she asked. "Yes. All libraries should have catalogues," he replied firmly. "Lord known when this was last done. In my father's time, I should imagine." "I'll start tomorrow," said Maggy happily. She spent days in the library, climbing up ladders and getting dusty. She had no idea how to classify books, so took the authors in alphabetical order and then tried to find their works. It became rather like a game of hide-and-seek, for whoever used the library was careless as to the arrangement of books, and it sometimes took half a morning to round up one volume. Maggy found she needed her glasses to decipher some of the worn lettering, and the work progressed slowly since she all too often remained sitting on top of a pair of steps lost in some hitherto undiscovered book.

Occasionally Garth wheeled himself in to watch her and ask a little mockingly how she was getting on, but she thought he was relieved that she had found an occupation. Once, upon finding her there in the late afternoon, he put his foot down, and ordered her to work only in the mornings. "You don't get out enough," he said impatiently. "Go and walk on the moors. This is no place for you to be stuck day after day. There's plenty of time ahead of you and it doesn't in the least matter if the job's never finished." Feeling deflated, Maggy obliged, thinking it was tactless of him to make it so plain that the work was unimportant. But she walked every afternoon, usually in the fine rain which to her seemed always to be falling in Ireland, and explored the moors and the shores of the loch in solitary isolation. She never met anyone save an old country man or woman with a load of turf,' and sometimes a barefoot girl riding a donkey along the rough boreens. She wished, she had a dog to accompany her on these lonely walks, but there were no dogs at Floyne, just as now there were no horses in the stables. She wondered idly what Garth did all those hours when he retired to his own room. Days would sometimes pass when she saw him only for meals, and although by now she was used to their silent sessions in the dining-room, it was sometimes a relief when he decided to dine in his own rooms, and left her with the evening to herself. Then she would sit by the fire and read, or fall into her old habit of daydreaming and often she looked at the closed grand piano in the drawing-room and longed to play on it, but so far she had been afraid to shatter the silence of Floyne with a sound which seemed so foreign to it. She wondered who had played the piano and how long it had been silent.

There was so much time in which to dream that Maggy often caught herself thinking of Garth. Here against his own background he was just as unapproachable as he had been at the Imperial. He never spoke of his life before his accident and there was nothing in the impersonal emptiness of Floyne to give a clue to what manner of man he had been. Mrs. Duffy was not the gossiping kind, and Bridgit, who was only too ready to talk, was a recent addition to the staff. Only old Casey, the groom, provided any hint of what the master with the use of his legs had been like. There was nothing now for Casey to do, and Maggy would come upon him sometimes gazing wistfully at the line of empty loose boxes in the stables, sick for the horses which had been his life. "Sould they was, very wan of them," he mourned. "An' the craythure that destroyed him the gintlest of thim all. It should niver have happened." "How did it happen, Casey?" Maggy asked. But he shook his head and pursed his old lips and just repeated : "It should niver have happened, an' himself the finest rider in the West. Niver reckless, you mind, but without fear. He rode hard an' he drove hard. A wan for speed was Mr. Shelton." Maggy looked at the long black Lagonda standing useless in the garage. No one but Garth had ever driven it. It was difficult to imagine him strong and active with a restless passion for speed. How had it been possible to readjust his oudook to this cold detachment? "He's still without fear," she said slowly. That at least was true. He even looked on death with the same indifference. The old man gave her a shrewd glance. He liked Maggy and was sorry for her, but the ways of the quality were quare entirely.

"He was born ould, that wan," he remarked obscurely. "There's niver any telling with the master's kind." No, thought Maggy sitting opposite her husband after dinner by the fire, there was never any telling. Soon he would close his book, and with a brief good-night, would wheel himself off to his own rooms. Maggy sighed. It would be nice to have someone to talk to.

On one of the rare fine afternoons of that rainy November, Maggy set out to return her calls. The Daimler which had brought them from the boat, she learnt, had been a hired car from Galway. Garth kept no chauffeur, and Maggy was driven by one of the gardeners in the old Hillman which was kept for station work. Maggy sat in the back of the car in her new tweed coat and expensive brogues feeling nervous and painfully young. It was not, she thought, part of a paid companion's job to return calls, but that of course arose from the complication of being Garth's wife as well. Maggy, feeling at times rather like Alice in Wonderland, began to wonder which she was. Just before she had started out he had looked at her with a quizzical expression and said: "You won't forget you're Mrs. Shelton and not Maggy Crayle, will you?" She had assured him she would try and remember, and wondered if she was not making a success of her job. She wished he could have come with her, but he went nowhere, and had seen no one since his return except his sister and his lawyer.

Bumping over the bad Irish roads, Maggy clasped her gloved hands tightly in her lap and muttered over and over again "Mrs. Garth Shelton: Mrs. Garth Shelton." The gardener, unlike most of his race, was not talkative, and she gazed at the back of his red neck and felt embarrassed at having to be shut up in a car with him for most of the afternoon. It would take, several hours to cover the distance which lay between each house, but it didn't seem to matter what time you called on people here. Perhaps they'll all be out, Maggy thought hopefully, but she was unlucky; they were all in except the Fitzgeralds. Each house was very much like its neighbour, smaller, more ramshackle editions of Floyne, with acres of grassland, and ill- kept gardens. At Ballycurrah, Maggy pulled a rusty bell three times with no result, and was just creeping thankfully away when the front door flew open and a loud imperious voice shouted: "Oh, no, you don't, me girl! Come in and let me look at you." Old Lady Rynd was an alarming apparition on first acquaintance. Shp had a face exactly like a parrot and wore an elaborately dressed wig of flaming red. She flourished an ear-trumpet as antique as her car, and it was a long time before Maggy realised the old lady could hear perfectly well when she wanted. She drove Maggy into a room crammed with Victorian knick- knacks, and apparently hermetically sealed windows, and proceeded to fire questions at her at an alarming rate. "H'm! Not Garth's cup of tea, I shouldn't have thought," was her opening remark. There seemed to be no answer to this, so . Maggy said nothing. "Would you have thought so?" demanded the startling old lady, and thrust her ear-trumpet into Maggy's face.

"I - I don't know what his tastes were," said Maggy faintly. "What? Speak up, child. You're mumbling." "I don't know what his tastes were," shouted Maggy. "Why not? He liked 'em high-couraged - like his horses. Are the rumours true?" "What rumours?'' Maggy backed away. "Keep still, child. The stories Eunice has been spreading! Scraped acquaintance in some health spa, sick-room stuff, married him before you could say wink." "It wasn't a bit like that," said Maggy, and felt her colour rising, and although she spoke in her normal tone of voice, Lady Ryndchuckled. "Garth's not one to be caught," she said. "Hard nut, Garth. Secret as the devil, too, and I've known him all his life. Not much of a bridal for you, though, eh?" She dug Maggy in the ribs with the eartrumpet, and emitted another fiendish cackle. "I think I must be going," Maggy yelled desperately into the eartrumpet. "Don't shout, I'm not deaf," said Lady Rynd severely. "Besides, you've only just come. Don't take any notice of me; you're as big a shock to me as I am to you." "Am I?" said Maggy disbelievingly. "Out of the schoolroom. Damn shame! Garth's played a dirty trick. Are you in love with him?" "No," shouted Maggy.

"Then what did you marry him for - Floyne?" "Yes," said Maggy defiantly. It seemed to be the simplest way out. A claw-like hand patted her cheek. "Oh, yeah!" the old lady said surprisingly. "Come again. I like you, child." Maggy waited anxiously on the steps of Castledrum wondering if her next encounter with her neighbours could possibly , prove as unnerving as the first, but the Shannons, and subsequently the McMahons and the Lynches, seemed to be normal hospitable people, who if they evinced rather more than polite interest in Garth's sudden marriage, at least made her welcome. They were, for the most part, contemporaries of Garth's and Eunice's, or elderly folk with families who had married and gone away. There appeared to be no one within the neighbourhood of Floyne within fifteen years of Maggy's age. She returned very late for dinner, tired, and rather depressed. So far Irish life had proved disappointing. Wit and sparkle had not been much in evidence, and no one kept pigs in the house. Garth had already dined, so Maggy ate a solitary meal, marooned in a small pool of candlelight at the end of the huge mahogany table, and longed very fiercely for her father. She carried her coffee cup into the library, wondering if Garth had already gone to his room, but he was there, sitting in his wheelchair by the fire, reading. He put his book down as she came in and asked casually: "How did you get on?" "They were mostly very kind," said Maggy dispiritedly. "But there seems to be nobody young here."

"The Lynches have a younger daughter being finished abroad, but she was still in the schoolroom when I last saw her." He sounded slightly irritable. "I've never had a wide circle of acquaintances. Eunice was the one for that. How did you get on with old Lady Rynd? " "I think she's awful," said Maggy frankly. He laughed. "You'll get used to old Amelia," he said unsympathetically. "She's what's known as a character, but she's a good old stick, really." "She's very rude, and very inquisitive," retorted Maggy. "She asked me -if I married you for Floyne.'' His eyes rested on her enigmatically for a moment. "She would. Probably trying to get a rise out of you. What did you say?" "I said yes," said Maggy, shaking the hair back from her face. "It seemed to be what she expected." "I should think it was the last admission she'd expect in the circumstances," he remarked dryly, and added with sardonic humour: "You'll be getting yourself a reputation for gold-digging, Maggy." "Not with her," said Maggy with spirit. "She said it was a damn shame and you had played a dirty trick." He laughed, but his eyes were not so amused. "I expect most of them will say that, once they've seen you," he replied.

All at once she became painfully conscious of his wheelchair, the rug over his helpless legs. It was not the sort of joke to have repeated to a man tied for life to a cripple's chair, and one's employer at that. She suddenly felt rather miserable. "I -I think I'll go to bed, if you don't mind," she said lamely, and got awkwardly to her feet. "Don't let my affliction embarrass you," he said, and she saw that his eyes were mocking her. "Half your attraction, Maggy, was that you never appeared to be sorry for me." "How can you say that?" she cried in distress. "I'd much rather say it - and think it," he returned dispassionately. "Good-night, Maggy."

CHAPTER VI NOVEMBER was a month of wild storms. For days at a time the gale tore at the rocky west coast and it was impossible to venture out of doors. Floyne at those times was a stronghold of desolation. The wind shrieked round the house and down the chimneys and lamps on their brackets in the many passages flared eerily in the draughts. Maggy, shut up for so many hours in the high, empty rooms, huddled over the sulky fires and thought of the long winter with dismay. There was so little to do, and although the work of cataloguing the library filled her mornings, there were the long, dark afternoons to be got through, and the strange, uneasy evenings. Although Garth appeared now for most meals, he seldom settled down in any of the living rooms until after tea, and sometimes he kept to his own room for two or three days at a time. Maggy sometimes wondered if he found their periods of isolation together as difficult as she did herself. He seemed very rarely disposed towards conversation, and she knew no more of him than she had on first acquaintance. He would sit opposite her with a book on his knees, sometimes reading, sometimes leaning back with his eyes closed as she remembered him on the terrace of the Imperial Hotel. Then Maggy would glance surreptitiously over the top of her own book at his weary, impassive face and wonder what he thought about during those long spells when he might have been asleep. But he seldom slept, she discovered, and once or twice his disconcerting eyes had opened suddenly as if he knew she was watching him. Then his lips tightened, whether in irritation at being watched, or in suspicion of unwanted compassion, she never knew, for he made no comment, and Maggy, feeling as though she had been caught listening at keyholes, hurriedly averted her own eyes. She did not feel pity for him. He was still to her something not quite real, like Floyne itself and the desolate countryside.

She could not think of him as a tragic figure, for his own detachment was like an; armour which no emotion might pierce. But at night, lying in her vast feather bed, she listened to the wind, and wondered why he had married her. Although six months with Mrs. Smythe-Gibson had taught Maggy that a companion's place is to be seen and not heard, she had a natural instinct to talk and ask questions that was more readily starved here at Floyne than in any of the hotel of her acquaintance. Until six months ago she had been used to her father's unstinted companionship every evening of her life, and she could have dissipated much of her loneliness talking to Garth, had he been more approachable. Instead, she made do with Bridgit, to Mrs Duffy's obvious disapproval. "If you would not encourage the girl to chatter and gossip, ma'am, she would be getting through her work quicker," she said once. Maggy felt reproved. She had encouraged Bridgit to spend long hours discoursing on leprechauns and banshees, the neighbours and the staff in her rich, Irish voice, until it was difficult to separate one from the other. But Bridgit was young. She was the only person interested in Maggy herself, and she was a fount of ignorant superstition and wise folklore. Maggy had a warm affection for her. Once, on Norah the elderly parlourmaid's afternoon out, Garth had caught them both laughing and chatting while Bridgit laid the tea in the library. They were unaware of him until he was half-way across the room, when they immediately fell silent. He made no comment when Bridgit had gone, but he glanced once or twice at Maggy, the animation still lingering in her eyes, although the laughter was wiped from her lips. It was not possible from his expression to know what he was thinking.

The unused grand piano standing in the deserted drawing- room had been a temptation from the start. Maggy never knew why she had hesitated to try it, for it would have proved a loved companion through many a long empty hour. But one afternoon when the wind had dropped and only the rain fell from the skies which had been grey and overcast for nearly a fortnight, the longing for selfexpression became too strong. What reason had she for not touching the piano? She had not seen Garth for nearly two days. If she couldn't talk then she would play. She opened the heavy lid timidly, and stood for a moment fingering the keys before she sat down on the old-fashioned revolving stool. Softly at first, she struck a few chords, and then as the fine quality of the instrument became apparent under her hesitating fingers, she wandered into half-forgotten phrases of her student days, her cheeks flushed with pleasure. Here was no neglected concession to drawingroom furnishing. Someone kept this piano regularly tuned. The notes were a little stiff as if they had not been played for some time, but the tone was exceptionally fine. Maggy's fingers, stiff at first, like the keys, gradually became more accustomed. Slightly intoxicated by the almost forgotten delight in making music she forgot her diffidence. The keys were cool and alive under her strengthening touch. Music filled the high room, stirring it to warmth. She was unconscious of the door opening and was aware of someone in the room with her only when a voice spoke almost at her elbow. "Mrs. Shelton, ma'am, will you stop this instant, please!" Maggy, startled, broke off in the middle of a phrase, the notes finishing in a discord. Mrs. Duffy, her black eyes snapping with anger in her white face, shut the keyboard lid almost on to Maggy's fingers.

"The piano is never used, now. The noise disturbs the master," she said, and her expression added: "Without permission, too. Little upstart!" The pleasure drained from Maggy's face. "I'm sorry," was all she said. "I didn't know." Yet she had known. Otherwise, why had she never touched the piano before? She wondered whether she should apologise to Garth when she saw him that evening. But he made no mention of the incident himself and she decided that perhaps he hadn't heard her. So the days slipped into December, each one like the one before. If the weather was fine enough, Maggy took her favourite walk to the Shamus Stone, that odd rock formation from which she had had her first view of the sea and the Isles of Aran lying in the water like some fairy phantasy. She liked to stand on the topmost stone which rocked a little, and feel the wind whipping- her face while she stared across the Atlantic. Sometimes when - Garth sent a message by Doolan that he would be lunching in his own room, she would bring sandwiches and eat them curled up in the heather in the lee of the rocks. Bridgit didn't approve of these visits to the Shamus Stone, but Maggy could never discover its history. Bridgit was full of the legends and superstitions attaching to almost every landmark in the West, but of the Shamus Stone she would say nothing save that it was "onlucky entirely," Maggy meant to ask Garth some time, though probably he was not much interested ia country superstitions. One morning in early December Maggy decided on an expedition to her favourite haunt which, on account of the weather, she had been unable to visit for over a fortnight. The storm of the night before had

died with the dawn hours, leaving a day that was rare in Maggy's short experience' of Ireland. The sun shone from a sky which was blue and innocent of clouds, and the deepened colour of moor and hills had for her a new and unexpected beauty. She walked with a light heart. Here was a day that even the austerity of Floyne couldn't spoil. Here in the heather above Lough Sidhe, she was free to be herself, to shout and sing if she chose, with no Mrs. Duffy to deny her. The hired Daimler was coming from Galway after lunch to take Garth on one of his rare, unspecified errands. She was free of them all until tea-time. She curled up in the heather in the shelter of the Shamus Stone and began to eat her sandwiches. She heard no sound of anyone approaching, but she was aware suddenly that someone was standing on the topmost stone. She could hear it rock. At the same moment a couple of Water spaniels discovered her own presence and stood snuffling and uttering little excited yelps. "What have you got there - a fox?" called a man's voice from above Maggy's head, and almost in the same breath, a wild figure, all flying legs and arms, leapt straight over her into the heather. Maggy let out a startled cry; the dogs barked again, and she found herself looking up into a pair of the bluest eyes she had ever seen. "For the love of God!" exclaimed the stranger. "And who in the world are you?" Before she could answer he said: "No, don't tell me. You're a changeling. You're the vixen of the Shamus legend in mortal form. Or you're little Bridgit - remember? "They stole little Bridgit For seven years long; When she came down again

Her friends were all gone.' " " 'They took her lightly back, Between the day and morrow. They thought that she was fast asleep, But she was dead with sorrow,' " Maggy finished softly. "You see!" He sounded delighted. "You know all about it." He looked down at her thoughtfully. "You do look rather like that, you know." "Dead with sorrow?" Maggy sounded quite startled. "No. When she came down again, her friends were all gone." Maggy's eyes were thoughtful. "I think I feel rather like that sometimes," she said slowly. Without further invitation, he sat down in the heather beside her. The dogs after a few inquisitive sniffs lay down also. "You know," said this surprising young man, "you begin to interest me. English, aren't you?" "Yes." "Who are you staying with? I thought I knew everyone in this neighbourhood." "I live here," said Maggy and added with shy unfamiliarity: "I'm Maggy Shelton. I live at Floyne." A strange expression crossed his face. Quick surprise giving place to a closer attention. His eyes looked suddenly very blue.

"So you're Garth Shelton's new wife," he said slowly, and sounded amused. "For the love of God, what next!" ' Maggy drew away a little. "Is there something queer about me?" she demanded a little defiantly. She was not prepared to put up with the unspoken criticism of the first young man she had met since coming to Ireland. His attractive, slightly mocking face assumed a quick gentleness. "Not queer, only unexpected," he told her softly. "To tell you the truth, when I first saw you sitting there with your shy eyes and hair falling to your shoulders, I thought you were a child of fourteen. Garth is a lucky man. You are enchanting, my dear." The delicate colour flooded Maggy's cheeks. He was the first man who had fever told her she was enchanting. She had no words for him at all, and he, watching her confusion, with a sharp flash of interest, understood it perfectly. "I'm Rory O'Malley," he said easily. "I live with my aunt on the other side of the loch from Floyne. We'll be meeting one of these days." "The Lynches?" Maggy asked, trying to remember who had called. "No. We live further down. A very small house with very large stables. My aunt cares for nothing but her horses. I don't expect she's called. She never calls on anyone." "I don't think my husband has mentioned -" began Maggy, wondering why she had never heard of Mr. O'Malley or his aunt before in a place where neighbours were so few and far between. He looked amused.

"Probably not. We all know each other quite well, but Garth was never much of a one for visiting - even before the accident." "Wasn't he?" asked Maggy simply, and by her very simplicity exposed her ignorance of all her husband's life before she married him. She pushed the packet of sandwiches towards him. "Do share my lunch. Mary Kate always gives me more than I can eat," she said, eager to make some friendly gesture because he was the first human being to whom she had been able to talk naturally for nearly two months. "Thanks." They sat side by side, munching contentedly, the mild winter sun warm on their faces, and the tang of the sea on their lips as they ate, and all at once Maggy knew that she could talk. Here was a companion, young like herself, quick to sympathy, quick to laughter, making her laugh. With him she could laugh over old Lady Rynd and her electric brougham, her wig and her ear- trumpet, the Lynches' vagueness, the Fitzgeralds' harmless snobbery. "Though mind you, old Amelia Rynd is all there. Doesn't give a damn for anyone and, if she likes you, she's your friend for life," he said. "I find her rather alarming," confessed Maggy, and began talking about Mrs. Duffy. "Well, old Duffy was always a bosom friend of Eunice's," he said. "If she'd had her way she'd have taken the old girl along when she married, but Johnny for once put his foot down. Said he couldn't

afford a housekeeper, so Garth kept her on." He shot a sideways glance at her."Met Eunice yet?" He knew, of course, quite well that they had met. Eunice's version of her brother's marriage and her brother's wife had gone all round the neighbourhood. "Yes," said Maggy laconically. Eunice was Garth's sister. She couldn't discuss her with a stranger. She didn't speak of Garth at all. "You don't like Ireland, do you?" he remarked shrewdly. "I don't think I understand the Irish people," she said apologetically. "And it does rain an awful lot." He laughed. "Poor little Bridgit! No, Floyne isn't exactly a youthful house. It never was. What do you do with yourself all day?" "I'm cataloguing the library," said Maggy seriously, and that seemed to amuse him more than anything. "You're very sweet," he said. "Very sweet and rather absurd. Will I tell you some of the legends of the West? Ireland simply hotches with the old gods, and leprechauns and fairy mounds. You must believe the legends to understand the Irish." "You can tell me the story of the Shamus Stone," she said quickly. "My maid, Bridgit, is full of stories, but she won't tell me this one. She says it's unlucky entirely." He gave her a swift enquiring glance. "Oh, Shamus was a wild rapscallion who made a pact with the Sidhe - the Little People - rather like selling your soul to the devil," he said.

"He had fallen in love with a fairy woman who was a woman by night and a vixen by day. He swore to catch the vixen so that he could keep her always in captivity, and he hunted her with his dogs one day and they killed her here right by the Shamus Stone, and the Sidhe carried him off then and there and he was never seen again from that day to this. The country people say he still rides on wild nights, compelled to hunt for ever as a punishment." Maggy shivered. "Like the Flying Dutchman compelled to sail for ever," she said. "Only he was saved by Senta's sacrifice." "Irish gods are more implacable," he laughed. "Will the story stop you from coming here?" She laughed in her turn. "Of course not - how silly! I often come here. It's my favourite place." Again he shot her that odd enquiring glance. "Is it?" was all he said. "Then I shall know where to look for . you." They had talked for two hours and the warmth was beginning to go out of the sun. Maggy realised it was getting late. "I must be getting back," she said, and got to her feet, stretching. She climbed on to the Shamus Stone and stood surveying the wide sweep of sky and sea and moor with glad eyes. "On a day like this, I can understand the magic," she said happily, and didn't know that young O'Malley himself was part of the magic. He didn't offer to walk back With her, but calling to his dogs, sprang off the rock and walked away through the heather.

It was downhill most of the way back to Floyne, and Maggy ran, jumping over gorse bushes, plunging carelessly into peaty pools because it was good to be young, to have found a friend, to have slaked her thirst in human companionship. After the long days of storm and rain, shut up in the silent house, she was intoxicated with freedom. Even the house itself seemed less alien as she pushed open the heavy front door and came into the quiet hall. The drawing-room door stood open, and a patch of sunlight fell full on the shining grand piano, catching small motes and particles of dust in a dancing haze. No one was about and Garth -was out. Maggy, with a swift glance over her shoulder, flung her coat in a heap on the floor and darted into the drawing-room to lift the lid of the piano. Once, just once when the house was deserted, she would let her new happiness run out of her fingers. She touched the keys eagerly and began to play a Strauss waltz. She had forgotten the title, but the gay lilt was as familiar as the swing of the dance itself. Let old Duffy come and tell her to stop. Let anyone interrupt until she had come to the last delicious phrase. Her fingers were becoming more supple, her touch more sure, and the lovely singing tone of the piano lingered on in the room as she finally stopped playing. "Thank you," said Garth's voice with grave politeness, and she whirled round on the revolving stool to see him sitting in his wheelchair just inside the doorway.

In a moment, the happiness was wiped from Maggy's face, and she looked the picture of guilt. Of all things to happen! Of all wretched things to happen on such an afternoon as this.... She began to stammer.

"I - I'm terribly sorry. I thought you were out. I would never — I mean if I'd known you were back —" She stopped miserably, seeing his quick frown of irritation. "Why should you apologise?" he said coldly. "You play very well." "Mrs. Duffy said the noise disturbed you," she explained. "She stopped me the other day." "Did she? Very officious of her. Play whenever you like, Maggy. Nothing disturbs me." But he was disturbed now, as Maggy could see when he propelled his chair up to the piano. "Thank you," she said doubtfully. "It's a lovely piano." He looked at her curiously. "You seem different today," he said slowly. "Just now you were happy. Perhaps I haven't seen you happy before." He gave a wry little smile and she was silent, not understanding the trend of the conversation at all. It would almost seem that his detachment was slipping. "I'm afraid you've been shut up here too much of late - all this bad weather and one thing and another. Go out and see people. You've met nearly everyone now." He sounded irritated again as if she had failed in her duties. "I haven't been asked," she said, feeling a little nervous. "People don't ask you in Ireland," he said impatiently. "You just drop in."

"Oh," said Maggy. "I don't think I should be very good at that." "You must learn to adapt yourself, my dear," he remarked briskly, and Maggy thought a little forlornly that she must have been learning to adapt herself ever since adolescence. He started to wheel his chair out again. "Well, play the piano whenever you feel inclined. I'll speak to Duffy. She takes too much upon herself at times," he said. "There's a whole pile of music in that cabinet which you can amuse yourself with the next wet day." But it was some days before Maggy summoned enough courage to take him at his word. Every morning now, Mrs. Duffy herself ostentatiously dusted the piano, but the gesture was denied by her compressed lips and added shortness of manner to Maggy. Garth had clearly given his orders and they were one more black mark against the interloper. Maggy was worried by the housekeeper's continued hostility. Whatever the woman's private view of her employer's marriage might be, she couldn't know the true facts and Maggy herself had given her no cause for such an attitude. But Mrs. Duffy in her small way added much to the difficulties of Maggy's position in the house. She firmly discouraged any attempts on the girl's part to make friends with the other servants, so that Maggy who would have liked to take an interest in Mary Kate's lumbago, and Norah's nephew in the Civil Guard, felt awkward on her rare visits to the kitchen and was obliged to invent weak- sounding reasons for being there at all. It was trae that Mary Kate would inevitably say: "I've just wet the tay, ma'am, will ye be havin' a cup?" Mary Kate was motherly and wheezy and looked on Maggy as an under-nourished child who needed feeding up. But if Maggy accepted, enjoying the big flagged kitchen with its smell of new bread and hot potato cakes, Mrs. Duffy was sure to

appear from nowhere and stand disapprovingly by, effectively putting an end to any easy conversation. She went twice in the next ten days to the Shamus Stone, but on neither occasion did she see Rory O'Malley. She had learnt from Bridgit that his aunt was a Miss O'Malley who lived on the other side of the loch and bred horses. The nephew made his home with her, Bridgit said, but he was the gay one, always gallivanting off at a moment's notice an' she without a man on the place, the craythure, for who'd be callin' Reilly a man an' he with the face an' the voice of a horse, so much time did he spend with thirn. There had been a niece, Bridgit believed, but that had been before her time, an' she was away now to Americy where the streets were paved with gould. The weather broke again and Maggy returned to the work of cataloguing the library. She was beginning to get in a muddle. Unexpected volumes kept turning up which she had overlooked and she had left insufficient space in which to fit them in their proper places. She would sit for hours on top of the steps, forgetting the reason for her presence there, lost in the beauty of words while her glasses slipped down on her nose. She found old vellum-bound editions of Chaucer, and the Elizabethans and the early Irish poets, and sometimes she would read them aloud to herself, dwelling lovingly over a line or a word and wishing that Garth liked being read aloud to so that she could share the beauty of her discoveries. Once or twice he surprised her at this occupation and on the second occasion he said: .. "I believe you really do love the music of words." She looked at him in surprise and took off her glasses.

"Don't you?" she asked gently."With all these books? " "I used to do what you're doing," he said with an odd expression. "Read aloud to myself." "Of course," said Maggy simply. "Reading poetry aloud is like playing music. It's so much better to hear it - but better still with someone to share it." "I don't agree," he said harshly. "That's a sentimental attitude that leads one astray." She wrinkled her forehead. "Why?" "Because it's building on a false emotion. One of the first selfdeceptions of lovers, for instance. Share music, share poetry. It can be utter boredom for one of them." Maggy didn't in the least know what he was talking about or why he sounded so cross. "But if you both love it," she said, and for no reason felt a* little embarrassed. It was unusual for him to discuss anything, least of all such a promising subject as human emotions. "You're very young, aren't you, Maggy?" he said with a rather mocking gentleness. But Maggy clung to her original point. "I don't feel like that. My father used to read to me nearly every evening. He read beautifully. I miss it," she said simply, and his face softened. "You miss your father too, don't you?" he said surprisingly. "Would you like it if I read to you sometimes?"

She looked astonished and suddenly shy. "I'd like it very much," she said awkwardly. She didn't think he would trouble, but that same evening, when they were settled in the library after dinner, he told her to choose a book and bring it to him. She chose a modern anthology and curled up in her chair relaxed like a contented child. At first he read harshly,, almost nervously as if he expected impatience or interruption from his listener, but Maggy sat motionless, making pictures for herself in the fire, and in a little while he, too, relaxed and his voice settled into the measured rhythm of the true lover of verse. It was the first of many evenings to be relieved of the strain of the old silent ones. Frequently he chose a book for her, and sometimes it was verse, and sometimes the stories of de Maupassant or Henry James. Often he would sit silent afterwards, the book lying open on his knees, but sometimes he would talk, and although he mostly discussed what they had been reading, she felt for the first time a closer understanding of what manner of man he might have been before his accident had shut him away in a world of his own. Of the accident itself and of its effects they never spoke at all, and in those stormy days before Christmas, Maggy almost forgot that he was a man with only a few months to live. She found it quite easy now to play when she wanted to. No one disturbed her, and she spent many hours going through the piles of music in the cabinet. She wondered to whom it had belonged. Whoever it was must have been sufficiently advanced to tackle Bach, Beethoven, Brahms. There were unfamiliar and difficult works by French and Russian composers, annotated and obviously well studied; and slipped in among them all was a song.

- It was a setting of Anna Wickham's The Cherry-Blossom Wand and across the title page in graceful flowing letters was the name: Sabrina.

CHAPTER VII TWICE now had that charming name leapt at Maggy from a printed page. The Wind in the Willows, The Cherry-Blossom Wand, and Sabrina's name linking the two lovely titles. For the first time since she had come to Floyne Maggy's thoughts returned to the unknown owner of the name, and she tried to remember what Garth had said. "She doesn't exist." Was she dead, or was she just a figment of the imagination - a name in an old book, a stranger to him as she was to Maggy? She began to play Sabrina's song. "I will pluck from my tree a cherry-blossom wand, And carry it in my merciless hand, So I will drive you, so bewitch your eyes," With a beautiful thing that can never grow wise." Maggy shivered a little. Perhaps the room was cold. Turf didn't seem to throw out heat in the same way as coal. "Light are the petals that fall from the bough, And lighter the love that I offer you now…" She broke off abruptly. The music was as cold and brittle as i the words, but its delicacy fascinated her. She started again and | played it right through from the beginning, humming the air. That evening, Garth didn't offer to read to her. He looked tired and was unusually silent. Maggy had the impression that he had heard her playing Sabrina's song and was displeased. She didn't touch the piano for the next two days, but walked instead each afternoon up to the Shamus Stone. On the second day she saw Rory O'Malley sitting on the topmost stone, a gun propped beside him against the rock.

"Hullo!" he called out when he saw her. "I thought you must have deserted old man Shamus, or been carried off by the Little People." "I've been twice when you weren't here," said Maggy, and he laughed. "Did you come and look for me?" he asked, amused at her ingenuousness. "Of course. You're the only person I have to talk to," she replied simply, and climbed on to the Shamus Stone beside him. He crinkled his nose at her and she thought again how very blue his eyes were. "I don't know whether to take that as a compliment or not," he laughed. "It has rather a last hope suggestion about it. Don't you talk to your husband?" "Y - es," said Maggy doubtfully. "But that's different." He regarded her serious face with amusement. "Have you discovered that after only two months of marriage?" he asked mockingly. But she lifted grave, clear eyes to his. "I didn't mean it was different because he was my husband," she explained like a conscientious child. "He is different. You see, I don't know him very well." The mockery went from his face. "You're a strange girl," he remarked. "I would very much like to know how that marriage came about, and so would half the district."

"Oh, it's very simple. You see —" Maggy stopped. It was so natural to talk to Rory, as if she had known him for years, that she had been on the point of explaining the whole situation to him. "Well, what do I see?" he asked curiously. "Nothing," said Maggy, and shut her lips firmly. His attractive mouth curved up in a wide grin. "I see one thing very clearly," he said. "What?" "Oh, no, Miss Curiosity. I can keep my counsel, tool What did you do before your marriage, or are you straight out of the schoolroom?" "I was companion to an old lady and we lived in hotels," said Maggy, and began to tell him about Mrs. Smythe-Gibson. "For the love of God!" he exclaimed. "To think such women exist! What drove you to such a life? Have you no people?" She started to talk about her father, and having started she couldn't slop. He was the first person to be interested in her life as Maggy Crayle, and the dull ache which had been with her ever since her father's death found exquisite relief in words. Her eyes were bright with tears as she finished talking and he leaned towards her and kissed her on the cheek. "You loved him very much, didn't you, Maggy?" he said gently. "And it's lonelier here than life in hotels. More time to think." "Yes," said Maggy, grateful for his swift understanding. "There's so little I can do at Floyne."

"Only the library." His eyes began to twinkle. She agreed gravely, and he burst into laughter. "It's the queerest occupation I've ever heard of for a bride!" he said. "No wonder you don't like Ireland." "It isn't exactly that," she said, looking puzzled. "But Ireland is so different from what I expected - except for the rain." "What did you expect?" "I don't quite know. But in the novels I've- read everyone was so jolly and kept pigs in the house and got drunk and sold horses as fast as hot cakes and were witty and gay and kind - and lived entirely on potatoes," she added without a smile. He burst out laughing. "Well, some of it's true," he assured her. "And I don't think you'd want pigs in the house or to live entirely on potatoes! But the Irish aren't nearly so unconventional as English novelists like you to believe, you know. In fact they are great respecters of codes and morals. But this isn't a good neighbourhood for young people, I'll admit. We're all so scattered, and Floyne never did much entertaining - even in the old days." "I wouldn't want entertaining," said Maggy simply. "Just people coming and going." "Well, you know -" he looked at her quizzically, "— Garth was always a cold, reserved sort of creature. Eunice was the one for entertaining. Garth was born old." Maggy considered this and thought it might be true. It was certainly difficult to imagine Garth an irresponsible nineteen. But she was not irresponsible herself. So far life had not allowed her to be.

"Perhaps I'm born old, too," she said thoughtfully. He smiled with tenderness. "You're the youngest thing I've met for a very long time," he told her candidly. "The down's scarcely off you, my chicken! You haven't learnt to play yet, that's all." She regarded him seriously. "You say the queerest things," she said, and got up. "I must be going back now." "I shan't see you again before the New Year. I'm going away for Christmas," he said. "Christmas?" She felt lonely at the idea of his going away. "Two weeks off. Had you forgotten?" "Yes, I had," said Maggy, and the thought of Christmas made her feel lonelier than ever. Last Christmas her father had been alive. She had decorated the old rectory with holly and paper chains and dressed the little tree, never dreaming it would be for the last time. Ellen, she remembered, had been in one of her moods and had scolded because at the last moment Geoffrey Crayle had given away their turkey to a poor parishioner and the shops were closed so they had to have Scotch eggs for their Christmas dinner. Ellen had scolded a lot about that time, but looking back, Maggy realised that she alone of them had seen the first signs of the breakdown which was to lead to that fatal illness in the spring. If I had only known, Maggy thought in her first young grief: if I had only known and seized all the precious moments and made them last. But nothing lasts, not even grief, she thought, sitting in her chair by

the fire, and listening to the small regular rustle as Garth turned the leaves of his book; one cannot hold on to time. Even with knowledge of the future one was helpless. She looked across at Garth. Perhaps in a year she would look back and think: if only I had known him better: if only I hadn't wasted the days. They were strangers to each Other, yet Maggy knew with frightened clarity that his death could not leave her untouched. She was aware all at once that his eyes were on her. "What were you thinking?" he asked abruptly. "I -" she searched wildly for some reply which was far from the truth, and could think of nothing. "I don't know," she said lamely. He looked at her gravely, the lines of his face etched deeply in the lamplight. "Don't think," he said with sudden harshness. "Believe me, it's quite profitless." He closed his book and began to turn his chair round. "Eunice and her husband are coming over to dine tomorrow night. I'm sorry, but I couldn't ignore my sister's demands any longer. You might tell Duffy." "Very well," she said, and glad of the excuse to evade his eyes, she ran across the room to open the door for him. He held out his hand with an unusual gesture of friendliness, and for a moment she took it, feeling the hard pressure of his fingers. "Good-night, Maggy," he said, and wheeled his chair past her through the doorway.

Maggy dressed for dinner the following night with a feeling of nervous tension. It was something of an ordeal to face an evening with Eunice after their last and only meeting, and Garth had asked the Fitzgeralds as well. "Easier for you," he had told Maggy> but Maggy was not so sure. Four pairs of curious and critical eyes were worse than two, and Eileen Fitzgerald and Eunice had been friends since their girlhood. She had never seen the crystal chandelier in the drawing- room lit up before. It gave an air of old-world grandeur to the room. The myriads of little drops and pendants sparkled like diamonds and gave Maggy confidence. Candlelight was kind, she thought, standing beside Garth, awaiting their guests, kind and a little unreal, and as beautiful as the lovely collection of glass in the big marquetry cabinet by the fireplace. The light was reflected in Waterford goblets, and Bristol fingerbowls, and fine Venetian wine glasses with stems so slender that it seemed as if a breath would snap them. For the first time, the drawing- room of Floyne appeared to have a personality of its own. Maggy was still wondering what parties the room had seen when Garth had been able to move about like other people, when Eunice was announced. "How do you do, Maggy?" she said, holding out a cold hand. "You've been long enough over your house-warming, I must say. Or perhaps Garth thought in the circumstances it was hardly necessary. Garth, my dear, you don't look well, but perhaps it's scarcely surprising. You must let Johnny have a look at you presently. I wish you'd persuade him to get a warmer car. I'm as cold as a refrigerator." She moved over to the fire and stood warming her hands while her restless eyes watched Maggy greet her brother-in-law.

Johnny Moore was a thin stooping man of nearly fifty with a gentle ascetic face which reminded Maggy of her father. She liked him instantly and thought there was genuine interest and pleasure in his eyes as he shook hands. "Well, Garth, it's good to see you again," he said, smiling down at his brother-in-law. "I expect you're glad to be home." "But high time you were out of that contraption with a brand- new wife and all," said Eunice with faint malice. To Maggy's relief the Fitzgeralds arrived and Eunice, ignoring Maggy, immediately began pouring out the drinks which were set out on a small table. It would have been a difficult evening if it hadn't been for Johnny. Eunice made it quite plain that she regarded her brother's marriage as a rather poor joke and although she made an effort to be polite to Maggy, her manner was a mixture of half- amused patronage and illconcealed curiosity. The Fitzgeralds were also curious, but they managed to hide the fact more successfully, and although Maggy found them dull they provided a check for Eunice. But Johnny, sitting on her left, although he didn't talk very much, gave her a feeling of sympathy and support. Whatever he thought, Johnny would be tolerant. Once or twice she caught him glancing at Garth with a shrewd professional eye and she thought he looked a little puzzled. Johnny for his part watched Maggy with interest. A child, yes — Eunice had been right there - but a mousy little nobody who had been just clever enough to catch a sick man on the rebound - that wasn't Maggy. He watched her sitting at the foot of Garth's table, very straight and slender in her leaf-green frock, and thought she looked like some delicate flower. Her fine bones had a brittle look in the candlelight, and the soft brown hair curling gently on to her shoulders

gave her the look of a grave child as she listened carefully to the conversation. "You must find Floyne a little lonely," he said kindly, and she turned to look at him with wide grey eyes which couldn't focus easily at short range. "It isn't that," she said, speaking as if they were alone and hadn't met for the first time only that evening. "It's feeling so useless." He nodded and looked thoughtful. "Yes, I can understand that, although, of course, you know you're quite wrong. Why otherwise should he have married you?" The pupils of her eyes, already larger than they should have been, dilated. "Yes, I used to think -" began Maggy, and stopped suddenly. She was aware of Garth throughout the meal, dealing with the women each side of him, replying to Mrs. Fitzgerald's small talk, listening to Eunice's biting comments, equally indifferent to both. She was glad when the port was placed on the table and she could give the signal to rise. "Don't stay too long, Hugh," said Eunice from the doorway, "I want Johnny to have a look at Garth." In the hall, she said to Maggy: "I'll take Eileen upstairs. Don't bother to come. I know my way." Maggy stood watching them, and as they disappeared round a bend in the stairs, Mrs. Fitzgerald's clear voice floated back to her: "But very presentable, my dear! I thought you said -"

Maggy went into the drawing-room and stood with her back to the fire. She felt alien and gauche and even the clinging velvet folds of her charming frock gave her no feeling of confidence. Dinner had been no worse and no better than she had expected, but Garth himself had given her little help. It had been left to Johnny to rescue her from the sticky patches. Garth in his supreme detachment possibly didn't notice that there were any. In his own fashion he was probably disliking the evening as much as she. Eunice and Mrs. Fitzgerald, no doubt seizing the only opportunity for discussing her thoroughly, came down after a long interval, and to Maggy's relief, Hugh Fitzgerald came into the drawing-room a few minutes afterwards. "As always, my dear Eunice, I've obeyed your instructions and left them to it," he said with heavy gallantry. "And now, Mrs. Shelton, tell us what you think of old Ireland." In the dining-room, there was a short silence when Hugh had left. Johnny, who had moved into his wife's place, fingered his port glass without speaking for a moment, then looked suddenly at his brotherin-law. "Do you want me to give you the once-over?" he asked gravely. Garth met his eyes with faint mockery. "There's nothing you can tell me that I don't know already," he said lightly. "And Eunice isn't really interested, you know." "Eunice is not very sensitive," said Johnny quietly. "But that has its advantages. The sensitive ones have a devil of a time in this world. Why did you marry Maggy?" For a moment Garth looked startled.

"Surely, my dear Johnny, you aren't going to join the chorus?" he said, sounding amused. "No. I'm interested, not curious. And Maggy happens to be one of the sensitive ones." Garth was silent for a moment, and his face looked much older. "Yes, I'm afraid she is," he said. "Who was she?" "Her father was a parson, I believe. One of the kind that wear themselves out in their profession. He died about eight months ago. I'm afraid the child still misses him." "That would account for some of it, I suppose." "Some of what?" "She struck me as being under some sort of strain. I think I'd be a little careful if I were you." For a moment Garth's cold eyes narrowed and he looked at Johnny warily. "Thanks for the hint," he said shortly. "But Maggy will be able to get away later - in the spring, perhaps." Johnny's gaze was absent. "She may not want to go then," he said slowly. Garth gave him a quick glance.

"I suppose all this means that you think I should never have married her," he said impatiently. "A child of nineteen tied for life to a man in a cripple's chair. Is that what you think?" Johnny's eyes were still absent. "No," he said thoughtfully. "No - I don't think you'd do that. But be a little careful. Do you want to get back to the others now?" "Well!" said Eunice when she saw them. "What did Johnny make of you?" Garth's black eyebrows lifted sardonically. "I'm not sure. You'd better ask Johnny," he said, and sounded amused. "If you want to know, we didn't discuss my health at all." Eunice gave an exclamation of annoyance. "How like you, and how like Johnny! Well, I'll tell you this, my dear, you may be five years younger than I am, but you look about ten years older now, though I say it myself." "That," said Garth suavely, "should give you every satisfaction." He held out his hand to Maggy, and she came to him a little uncertainly. "Will you play for us, Maggy?" he asked with gentleness. She looked surprised and then a little dismayed. "Oh, I couldn't - I mean I don't think anyone wants -" She broke off and looked appealingly at Johnny who was watching them quietly. "I want," Garth said, and slipped his hand round her waist, giving it a gentle squeeze.

She looked down at him in surprise. He had never before touched her in this way, and looking at him she saw that for the moment he had dropped the cold indifferent mask he habitually wore, and was smiling up at her encouragingly. "Go on!" "All right," she said, and went and sat down at the piano. But her fingers felt cold as she touched .the keys. What could jhe play for these people who plainly didn't want to listen? Only then Johnny leaning up against the mantelpiece regarded her with interest. She couldn't see Garth's face at all. She began to play a Chopin nocturne. Chopin was somehow right for after dinner playing to a not very appreciative audience. Polite sounds greeted the final notes and Eunice cleared her throat as if about to speak. Garth's voice said quickly: "Don't stop." Brahms ... Brahms was easy to listen to.... In the middle of one of the waltzes, Maggy stopped, and because for her it always brought release and comfort, she began to play Bach's Jesu, joy of man's desiring, and as the lovely flow of that quiet music filled the room, the essence of it entered into Maggy and brought her peace. "Quite an accomplished little pianist," said Mrs. Fitzgerald, sounding surprised. Johnny said nothing, but watched her face with a curious expression. Eunice said grudgingly: "You're good, Maggy. As good as Garth used to be. Usen't you to play that last thing, Garth?" So it was Garth himself who had played Maggy's piano! She turned swiftly to look at him, but he was sitting well back in the shadow and it was difficult to see his expression.

"Yes," he said briefly in answer to Eunice, and his voice sounded oddly moved. Maggy crossed the room to him. "I didn't know it was you who played," she said softly. "Why didn't you tell me?" "I never touch it now," he replied unemotionally, and moved his chair in order to talk to Mrs. Fitzgerald. Eunice sat staring at Maggy's hands, then she suddenly remarked : "What did Garth give you for an engagement ring, Maggy? The famous Shelton sapphire?"

Everyone stopped talking and turned to look at her. Maggy glanced at her slim, unadorned hands and put them behind her back. It was a defiant, touching little movement which Johnny observed with interest. "I - I don't care for jewellery," she said, and looked a little desperately at Garth. "We haven't yet decided on that important question,!' he said smoothly. Eunice gave a hard little laugh, but her eyes were avid. "Well, if Maggy can't make up her mind about the Shelton jewels, she's hard to please," she said. "But you're probably right, Maggy. Fine jewels take wearing. Which do you like best?" "I've never seen them," said Maggy simply, and Johnny knew she meant, "I never knew they existed."

"Never seen them!" Eunice's voice was a mixture of incredulity and contempt. "Neither have I," said Mrs. Fitzgerald archly. "Couldn't we see them now, Garth?" Her husband added facetiously: "Yes, let's have a private view. You've been holding out on your wife, my dear feller!" "Very well." Garth's voice was expressionless. It was impossible to tell whether he was irritated or merely bored. "Maggy, would you mind ringing for Doolan?" Maggy waited in acute embarrassment for Doolan to answer the bell, and listened to her sister-in-law's extravagant rhapsodies to Mrs. Fitzgerald. She didn't want to see the Shelton jewels under the avid gaze of these two women. She had no share in family heirlooms. Doolan took the keys which Garth handed him and left the room, returning presently with several worn leather cases, which he placed near his master on a small inlaid table. "Let me show them," said Eunice, jumping up, and her eager fingers fumbled for the first clasp. They all crowded round the little table, exclaiming as Eunice opened case after case. Emeralds and rubies glowed up at them from their old-fashioned settings; and diamonds caught the facets of light from the crystal drops of the chandelier, sending back points of fire. And last of all the sapphires. They were a set, necklace, ring and earrings, and unlike many of the other jewels, their setting was fine and delicate. The square-cut stones shone with a deep midnight blue of velvet softness.

"I've always coveted the sapphires," Eunice sighed. "It's so absurd that they should always pass to the Shelton men's women. If you hadn't married, Garth, I suppose in time —" Maggy watched her staring at the jewels, her hard handsome face flushed with a passionate intensity, and she realised then that Eunice loved the Shelton jewels as another woman might love her lover. "May we take them out?" Mrs. Fitzgerald asked. "They don't show up on that blue velvet." "They need a white skin." Eunice lifted the necklace and held it against her throat. "I forgot I was already wearing my pearls. Here, Maggy, you put them on." She held the necklace out to Maggy, who shook her head. "No - oh, no," she said quickly. Eunice raised her eyebrows. "Why ever not? You'll wear them one day, I imagine, though I agree you're not quite the type now. Come here and let me fasten them for you." Conscious that they were all regarding her a little oddly, Maggy looked across at Garth. He was sitting quietly in his wheelchair, his arms folded across his chest, watching with an expression of sardonic amusement. "Let Eunice put them on for you," he said. She came and stood in front of her sister-in-law without a word, and shivered a little as the necklace struck coldly on her skin. "There! Turn round."

"Jove, they're beautiful!" exclaimed Hugh Fitzgerald, and his wife gave a little murmur of admiration. "They do something for you, Maggy." Eunice's eyes were mocking. "What a pity you don't like jewellery. Don't you want to look at yourself in a mirror?" "No," said Maggy. "Heavens I No vanity either! What an unnatural girl! Well, take them off, and we'll put them back again in their useless incarceration. I can see the Shelton jewels will be wasted on you. You'd much better lend them to me, Garth." "Never give up, Eunice, you may yet have them," Garth said with a crooked smile. "Johnny, how about circulating some drinks?" The jewels were returned to their cases and Doolan came and took them back to the safe. Eunice and Mrs. Fitzgerald sat together on a sofa and began a long conversation about their mutual friends, and Johnny brought Maggy a brandy and soda. She shook her head. "No, thanks, I never do." He thrust the glass into her hand. "Doctor's orders," he said, his eyes twinkling. "It'll do you good." She smiled. "You must be a very nice doctor," she said impulsively. "Will you come and look after me if I'm ever ill?" "You try sending for anybody else and see what happens!"

"Even in the middle of the night?" "Even in the middle the night. And Maggy -" his voice was suddenly serious, "— that doesn't only go for illness. Any time you feel you want a friend. Understand?" Her eyes filled with tears. "You're the kindest person I've ever met," she said, and took a large gulp of the brandy and soda. The Moores left early for the long drive back to Galway, and the Fitzgeralds followed soon after. The room seemed very silent when they had gone, and Maggy looked at Garth with concern, wondering if the unaccustomed entertaining had tired him. He sat finishing his whisky and watching her with a thoughtful expression. "Well," he said, "you came through that very nicely, Maggy. My sister's a damnable woman, isn't she?" She began putting empty glasses back on the tray, not knowing what to reply. She thought of Eunice looking at the jewels as she had probably never looked at Johnny, and she thought of Johnny with his wise, kindly eyes which saw so much. They were a hard, unyielding lot, these Sheltons. "What made you play the Bach Chorale in the middle of the Brahms?" he asked suddenly, and at the new note in his voice she looked up. "I'm afraid I played it to restore my nerve," she said with a smile. "Always it does something for me. It's - it's like one's nurse saying, 'Everything will be better in the morning.' It's right and lovely."

He was silent for a moment, then he said: "Yes. It is essentially right. Thank you for playing it, Maggy." She stood with an ashtray in her hand, thinking: He isn't really hard. We could understand one another if he hadn't shut himself away. He put down his empty glass and began to wheel his chair towards the door. "Stop emptying ashtrays and go to bed," he said. "You look tired. Good-night, my dear."

CHAPTER VIII As Christmas approached, Maggy began wondering what she ought to do about it. Her own Christmas this year was sadly simple. There was only Ellen left to remember, and perhaps a few cards to some of her father's old parishioners who would miss his own kindly greetings. But there were Garth's friends. There was holly and mistletoe and a tree - a big tree in the great hall bearing gifts for the staff. She asked Garth for a list to whom cards should be sent. "Cards?" He frowned. "What for?" "Well, Christmas is only a week away." "Is it?" He sounded surprised. "I never send cards, so you needn't worry about that. But thanks for reminding me. Duffy had better go into Galway soon and see about the things for Eunice's children." "I could do that," said Maggy eagerly. "Certainly, if it amuses you, though Duffy's always done it." Maggy felt chilled. Had he never indulged in Christmas shopping, then, even before he was paralysed? "I'd like to. Shall I get the things for the servants - to put on the tree, I mean?" He looked astonished, then mildly irritated. "What on earth would be the point of having a tree here?" he said impatiently. "We're all adult people, and the servants have their own festivities anyway. At least I suppose they do. They always have their complement of whisky and porter and a cheque each. Doolan sees to that."

"Oh." Maggy sounded snubbed, and he said more gently: "I'm afraid we don't keep Christmas at Floyne - not at any rate in the accepted sense, and this year it seems a little more pointless than usual, doesn't it?" "But did you never - I mean holly and snapdragon and things?" "Well, you see, after Eunice married we never entertained much, and then my parents died, and I'm afraid I just never bothered on my own." "I see," said Maggy, and he added indifferently: "But if it would amuse you to stick up bits of holly all over the place, do so by all means. Doolan can tell the gardeners." But the spirit of Christmas had died with his words almost before it was born. What was the point of gifts and decorations if the personal touch was missing? She drove into Galway with a small packet of letters to post for Garth, and studied his neat writing resentfully. A cheque for Eunice, cheques for the children in addition to the toys Maggy was to choose, cheques for pensioned-off employees. Garth was generous enough, but his generosity was like himself, detached, impersonal, like the standing order for a ham and a Stilton which annually went to Johnny. Maggy thought of the Christmasses in the rectory, the trouble and loving thought which had gone into the cheap gifts. She had always imagined how delightful it must be to go out and buy exactly what you wanted for people, but it appeared that if you were rich you forwent such pleasures and just signed your name to a cheque or an order.

Maggy looked at her own list and began planning presents for the staff. A tree would obviously be silly, but there was nothing to stop her from taking her small personal gifts to the servants' hall and presenting them herself. Garth made her a generous allowance which she had no opportunity of spending, and she would at least enjoy her own share in this Christmas. The grey hazy town was full of bustle. Fat turkeys hung on the market stalls, which were bright with holly, and on every side rose the cadenced sound of Irish voices bargaining. Maggy left Murphy and the car in the market square and wandered through the crowds, enjoying the rich-flavoured scraps of talk as she went. Galway still struck her as a foreign town, with its narrow streets, its hint of Spanish architecture, and the stacked piles of scarlet flannel outside the drapers' shops. On this soft, grey afternoon with the light already fading, she was very conscious of the sad beauty of this old town with its air of gentle decay, and she had a sudden nostalgia for cockney voices, the smell of tubes, lighted buses, crude with advertisements, and the friendly roar of traffic. Twice she lost herself and had to be directed by loquacious passersby. People addressed her as "milady" and "missy," and sometimes "me jewel." Confused, she took another wrong turning, and walked, straight into Rory O'Malley carrying a saddle on one arm and a horse blanket on the other. "If it isn't little Bridgit, and judging by the look of you your friends have all gone again!" he exclaimed. "I'm lost," laughed Maggy. "And I was just hankering after the smell of a nice fried fish shop in the North End Road. I'm really trying to do my Christmas shopping." "Well, wait now till I've dumped these in the trap, and I'll come with you," he said, and she turned and walked along beside him.

''Shopping for my aunt is always a round of saddlers or corn merchants, but I'm done now." She said, her spirits rising with every step: "I thought you were going away for Christmas." "So I am, tomorrow," he replied. "So it was the will of God that sent my aunt into Galway today. Here we are." He turned into a mews where the horse and trap had been put for the afternoon, and Rory hailed an untidy-looking woman in oldfashioned tweeds who was talking to a groom. "Aunt Kate, meet the new Mrs. Shelton, who's lost herself in the wilds of Galway!" Miss O'Malley turned expectantly, and Maggy found herself looking into a pair of shrewd, faded blue eyes that were faintly familiar. "How d'ye do?" said Rory's aunt briskly, then, with quickened interest: "Haven't I seen you before, somewhere?" "I don't think -" began Maggy politely, then Miss O'Malley thrust a sticky paper bag under her nose, saying: "Have a bulls- eye?" and she remembered. Herself sitting in a hushed hotel lounge looking at Punches, and an eccentric-looking woman who drank double whiskies and offered her bulls-eyes. "Of course!" she laughed. "It was at Black's Hotel in October. You spoke to me after dinner." "Well," said Kate O'Malley, "that's one mystery cleared up. The child was wearing a brand-new wedding ring, my dear boy, and getting tight on champagne all by herself, and I couldn't make it out at all."

"Was I really getting tight?" asked Maggy with alarm. "I remember I felt rather queer. You see, it was my wedding day." "God save you, you poor innocent!" Miss O'Malley exclaimed with fervour. "And why couldn't your husband have taken a private room for you both and got drunk himself? That's always been his trouble, the poor creature -no women, and not enough drink." "Come now, you old reprobate, that's no way to talk to a young bride about her husband," laughed Rory. "Pay no attention to her, Maggy, she has no mind above the General Stud Book. I'm taking her Christmas shopping, Aunt, and then I shall give her some tea." "Do her good," said Miss O'Malley with emphasis. "Meet me here and don't keep me waiting after half-past five. The mare's tricky after dark." The afternoon passed gaily enough with Rory making the choosing of presents a merry task. He proved invaluable with suggestions for Garth's unknown young nephew and niece, whom he described as "unpleasant brats, domineering like their mother." Mrs. Duffy presented the greatest problem, since Maggy felt that whatever she chose would be received with disapproval. Rory facetiously suggested that a bottle of liver salts would be the most appropriate gift, but finally they found something suitable and Maggy's shopping was finished. As she accompanied Rory to the place she had chosen for tea, Maggy remembered Garth. She would have liked very much to buy a present for Garth, even though his own money would pay for it, but she hadn't the slightest idea what to get. If he gave her anything at all she supposed it would be a cheque, the same as his other employees - a cheque to be put aside and added to that future ..annuity. An annuity had a bleak, old-maidish sound which chilled Maggy when she thought of it. Old servants were pensioned off with annuities when

their employers died or no longer had any use for their services. No, it was impossible to choose a present for Garth. The harbour lamps were alight when she walked with Rory back to the market square, and a faint afterglow still hung over the Connemara hills. They passed stalls hung with holly and mistletoe, and men and women went by laughing, carrying great bunches of the stuff. The berries were good this year, and the branches were heavy with brilliant scarlet clusters. I will have holly, thought Maggy suddenly. Christmas without holly isn't Christmas. She bought lavishly, Rory bargaining light-heartedly with a little man with bandy legs who might have been a jockey. Between them they carried the prickly stuff to the car and dumped it in the back. Murphy looked sourly at the heap of greenery and remarked: "For what would you be wanting to spind good money on the likes av that? Sure, it grows in the hidges." Maggy laughed, said good-bye to Rory, and got into the front seat beside the driver. Her mind was still full of Garth as Murphy threaded his way through the crowded streets, and seeing an antique shop she ordered him to stop. The window was crowded with junk, but Maggy had caught sight of a dusty, graceful goblet wedged in among the rubbish. Garth collected glass. Here perhaps was the right gift. The stuffy little shop was ill-lighted, and Maggy stood fingering the goblet doubtfully. She knew nothing about glass, but the shape and pattern of vine-leaves pleased her. "Is it genuine?" she asked timidly.

"Och! Ye'll niver clap eyes on a finer piece of Waterford," the proprietor told her glibly. "Georgian - God rest his sowl!" he added obscurely. "Waterford? I thought -" began Maggy doubtfully. "Sure, it's Waterford, milady - can ye not see the blue in it wid your two eyes? Dust? Sure, there's dust on it too, but isn't that a proof of its age? Thim kings was dead a long time." Avoiding with difficulty being sold a picture, a china dog and a commode, Maggy paid for the goblet and took it out to the car. She stopped at the Moores' big house on the outskirts of the town to leave her presents. To her relief, Eunice was out, but the two children came bounding down the stairs to gaze with interest at their new aunt. "What have you brought us? Not another doll, I hope," said Kathy, aged nine. Michael, the boy, who was two years younger, said nothing, but was already tearing open Maggy's parcels. "Oughtn't you to wait for Christmas Day?" asked Maggy. Michael looked at her with Garth's cold eyes. "We don't go in for all that pillow-case stuff," he said severely. "You'll be asking me if I believe in Father Christmas next." Maggy was near enough childhood herself to return with spirit : "I think it's very dull not to believe in anything."

"Michael's an atheist," said Kathy grandly. "Did you play in the band in Uncle Garth's hotel in England?" ' "Of course not, why should I?" "Oh, Mummy said you probably did. Uncle Garth's a cripple for life, isn't he? Do you push him around in a bath chair?" "When Uncle Garth dies, we inherit Floyne," Michael said conversationally, and added encouragingly: "But I don't suppose that will be till I'm grown up, and of course you may have children." "Don't be silly," said Kathy in a superior voice. "How can Uncle Garth-" To Maggy's intense relief, Johnny put his head out of his surgery door. "Hullo, Maggy!" he exclaimed with pleasure. "I wondered who the children were talking to. Come and have a glass of sherry." Sitting opposite Johnny in his untidy study, she thought again how nice he was and how strange it should be that he had produced such obviously Shelton children. His eyes twinkled at her suddenly. "Found the brats a bit unnerving?" he asked, and she laughed. "Some of their remarks are a little alarming," she admitted. "They're going through a precocious stage. Eunice encourages them, afraid," he said. "Garth much the same? " "Yes, he doesn't seem to vary very much. I've often wondered does he have much pain? "

He shook his head. "None at all. Paralysis is a complete numbing of all the nerves affected. There is no pain." "I'm glad," said Maggy softly, and shortly afterwards she left.

It was close on seven o'clock when she got back to Floyne. Garth would be dressing for dinner. Murphy helped her carry in the holly and pile it in a gay heap in the hall. Tomorrow she would begin decorating. As the last bundle was brought in, Mrs. Duffy came through the dining-room door and stood looking at the holly. "What's all this?" she demanded of Murphy, ignoring Maggy, who had usurped her privileges in the matter of Christmas shopping. "I bought it for the decorations," Maggy said, annoyed with herself for the immediate feeling of guilt which always assailed her in the housekeeper's presence. Mrs. Duffy turned her bright, snapping eyes on Maggy. "The master will not tolerate that stuff in this part of the house, if you'll excuse me, ma'am. If you had asked me before you went, I could have told you we never decorate Floyne." "I've already spoken to Mr. Shelton, Mrs. Duffy," said Maggy, her temper rising. The woman's attitude in front of one of the other servants was insufferable. "I've had no other orders, ma'am, except the usual ones. The master mislikes litter," Mrs. Duffy said. "Take the stuff away to the servants' hall, Pat Murphy, before the master sees it. The staff will be glad of

your thought, ma'am, though usually the gardeners bring it in thimselves." Furiously angry, Maggy began to go upstairs, determined that very evening to speak to Garth about the woman's interference. But to her surprise, Mrs. Duffy followed her. "You will pardon me, ma'am, if I should seem interfering," she said unctuously, "but this year things are best left as they are. The poor master! 'Twould be cruel to remind him." "I cannot see that a few bits of holly are going to upset Mr. Shelton because he is unable to walk, Mrs. Duffy," said Maggy coldly. "Ah, well, perhaps you wouldn't be knowin'." The housekeeper placed a detaining hand on Maggy's arm. "Last year it was different. The only time in my memory that Floyne was decorated. But there were great doin's that Christmas - a lighted tree, an' dancin', an' thirty sittin' down to dinner on Christmas night, an' the poor master - t'was only two months later he had the accident." Maggy paused at a bend in the stairs, forgetting her anger in her amazement. "A party - dancing - at Floyne?" she asked with astonishment. "The only one. An' in a manner of speakin', it was Miss Sabrina's party." ' Maggy went on to her own room to change, her mind in a turmoil of conflicting thoughts. Who was Sabrina and where was she now? Why, if she existed, had no one spoken of her until now? Was she, in fact, dead, as Garth had once implied, and was her strange name somehow bound up with the accident which had tied him to a cripple's chair for life?

She was late for dinner that night, and Garth seemed Curt, impatient at being kept waiting. Maggy watched him surreptitiously throughout the evening, trying to imagine him in different circumstances. But it was difficult to picture that quiet detachment being pierced by warmth and laughter. Had not Rory said of him: "Garth was always a cold, reserved sort of creature.... He was born old." Was anyone really born old, she wondered, or did life sometimes do that to you before your time? Eunice had been right, Maggy thought with a little shock of pain. With his greying hair and thin, lined face he might easily, have passed for forty-five. His lack of movement, the swift, silent passage of his wheelchair took any suggestion of; youth from him, and it was hard to visualise him as he must have been only nine months ago, an active normal man. He looked up suddenly from his book and she hastily transferred her gaze to the fire. "I must take up a library subscription for you, Maggy," he said. "I'm afraid there's nothing very modern to read at Floyne." She felt awkward, wondering if he resented her sitting idly opposite him, lost in her own thoughts. He had stopped reading aloud to her of late, and she missed the closer intimacy of those evenings. "Thank you," she said meekly. "Did you find what you wanted in Galway?" "Yes," she said, and thought of the goblet which she had carefully Washed and hidden in the bottom of her wardrobe. But she said nothing about the holly so gaily bought at the market stalls. After all, what was the point of holly if no one felt like Christmas? Christmas Eve was a day of wild storms. Garth, who didn't appear to be so well, kept to his room, not even joining Maggy for dinner, and

she went to bed early, wondering as she passed through the silent hall, dim with shadows, what it must have looked like last year with its lighted tree and the curving staircase echoing with careless footsteps. Bridgit had told her how on Christmas Eve the country people placed lighted candles in their windows to invite the Christ- child in should He be passing. Maggy had thought it a charming custom, and when upon reaching her room she found the curtains drawn back and a single candle burning on the window- sill, she wanted to weep for the simple friendly gesture of the kindly girl. She lay awake in her shadowy four-poster for a long time, watching the little flame burn down and listening to the wind tear at the ivy on the walls. Her thoughts went to Garth in his room on the other side of the house. Was he lying awake like her, listening to the wind, and thinking of heaven knew what? Tomorrow I will give him my goblet, she thought, as she sleepily turned over, and for the first time she had a conscious desire which almost hurt to get inside the mind within that imprisoned body. But for most of Christmas Day Maggy had no opportunity to present her gift. Garth still kept to his room, and since the weather was still stormy, it seemed unlikely that he would leave k for his customary preamble round the grounds. Maggy would have liked to have gone to church in the morning, but the Hill- man had been requisitioned to take the servants to Mass, and there seemed no other means of getting there. After lunch she went into the servants' hall to hand out her presents, and although they all looked a little surprised that she had come herself, they seemed quite pleasedMary Kate, in the timely absence of Mrs. Duffy, insisted that Maggy drank a glass of port with them. She tried to remember their separate

personal histories and say a friendly word to each, but she felt herself an intruder. Holly and paper streamers decked the room in rich profusion, the outdoor servants had flushed, shining faces, and a strong aroma of spirits hung over everything. Maggy left, envying them their festivities, although she felt she had embarrassed them, and it warmed her heart to hear the cook's fat-voice exclaim as the door closed behind her : "Now, wasn't that the kindly spirit, the poor English heretic!" She went back to the library to find Garth sitting in his wheelchair, looking at the two Christmas cards which graced the mantelpiece. "Oh, a happy Christmas!" she said, and paused in the doorway, deciding to run upstairs and fetch the goblet. He turned his chair to look at her. "A happy Christmas, Maggy," he said, then nodded in the direction of the cards. "Who are they from?" One was from Ellen, and one, unexpectedly, from Rory O'Malley. It had been nice of him to think of her. Maggy crossed the room and handed them down for Garth to see. At Rory's signature he looked up sharply. "I didn't know you two knew each other," he said, and at the tone of his voice she jumped. "I've only met him two or three times," she said, puzzled by his manner. "He seems to think he's on fairly familiar terms, and why does he call you Bridgit?" She was beginning to feel a little scared by the grimness of his expression.

"It's rather silly really - it's from some verses - Up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen - you must know it," she said incoherently. "I don't see the connection," he remarked coldly. "Where did you meet him? "At the Shamus Stone." "The Shamus Stone!" he repeated, and there was an odd expression in his eyes. "Do you often go there?" "Quite often, I like the view." "I see," he said. Maggy asked, feeling bewildered: "Do you mind?" He was silent for a long minute, then he replied shortly: "No, I don't mind," but whether his answer applied to her visits to the Shamus Stone or her meeting with young O'Malley she had no idea. She hesitated for a moment, but when he appeared to have no more to say she went out of the room to fetch the goblet. She wasn't more than a few minutes, but when she came back to the library he had gone. She stood there, turning the odd-shaped parcel round and round in her hands. Perhaps she had better not give it to him after all. There had been nothing for her on the breakfast table that morning, except the two cards and an unexpected volume of early Elizabethan music from Johnny. It might embarrass him if she gave him a present when he had none for her. How angry he had sounded! Maggy wondered what had been so startling in the brief little exchange, then she realized that it was the first time she had seen him shaken out of his frigid detachment into

normal emotion. He had undoubtedly been shocked into genuine anger. Slowly Maggy went upstairs again and put the goblet back in the wardrobe. The rest of the afternoon wore away rather dismally. Maggy had a solitary tea by the library fire, and went up later to change for dinner feeling more acutely homesick than she had done since she first came to Floyne. Bridgit wasn't there, as she so often was, with the pretence of helping her to dress, which was an excuse to stay and chatter and admire Maggy's clothes. Bridgit was celebrating Christmas in the festive servants' hall, and the guttered candle of the night before still remained, mute testimony that for Bridgit this was a special day and her work was scamped. Maggy took down a slim dress of smoky-blue chiffon and slipped it over her head, thinking with faint surprise how used she had become to wearing pretty things. There was much that she was used to at Floyne now; the smell of turf fires, the silent entrances and exits of Garth's wheelchair, even the cold and the rain. It was raining now, the wind driving the rattling gusts on ' to the window panes and making the candles on the dressing- table flare and waver. She thrust her feet into slender silver slippers, her fingers brushing against her fine stockings. Last year she had sdt down to her Christmas dinner in the old skirt and jersey she wore to the College of Music. Her cheap stockings were darned and darned again by Ellen's thrifty fingers, and there were Scotch eggs to eat instead of turkey. Then she had been Maggy Crayle, scarcely out of the schoolroom, with a father who watched her growth from adolescence with loving eyes. Now she was Mrs. Garth Shelton going downstairs in high-heeled shoes to dine with a husband who was still a stranger.

Garth was waiting for her in the drawing-room - an unusual occurrence, for they always sat in the library after dinner. Only the small candelabra on the walls had been lighted tonight, and the room looked less formal, more intimate than it usually did. She thought Garth's eyes rested on her with a speculative air as he handed her a glass of sherry, yet there was a kindliness in his regard, a hint of warmth which was generally absent. He seemed to have forgotten his anger of the afternoon. "A happy Christmas again!" he said, raising his glass to her. "I have a present for you, but I'd rather give it to you after dinner." "Oh!" said Maggy, and felt the tears sting her eyelids. "I have one for you too, but I haven't liked to give it to you before." He looked surprised and a little touched. "That's very sweet of you," he said. At dinner, for the first time, he seemed to be exerting himself to entertain her, and she remembered how once before a personal blow had caused him to be kind. Was he remembering now his last gay Christmas, just as she was remembering hers? She tried to keep her share of the unfamiliar small-talk going, but the long day with its bitter-sweet memories was proving too much for her and she gradually fell silent. Back in the drawing-room when they had finished their coffee he looked at her. "Shall I give you my present now?" he asked. "I'll get mine first," she said, and ran out of the room, glad of the respite.

Upstairs, she blinked away tears which she didn't understand, reflecting that everything had become more difficult since he had temporarily abandoned his habitual indifference, and seizing the goblet, she went downstairs and gave it to him without a word. "Why, Maggy, it's lovely," he said, holding the goblet up to the light. "Thank you very much, my dear." "The man said it was genuine, but I don't think it's Water- ford, do you?" she said doubtfully. "No, not Waterford, perhaps, but very charming," he replied gently. He didn't tell her that the goblet was the poorest of modern fakes, but wheeled his chair over to the marquetry cabinet, and placed Maggy's gift carefully between two priceless pieces of glass. "That was a very thoughtful present, and one I can enjoy even as things are," he said, coming back to the fire. "And now may I give you mine?" She nodded, glad it wasn't to be an impersonal cheque after all. He handed her a flat leather case which had been hidden under the light rug which lay across his knees, and placed two smaller cases on a table near him. Maggy, suddenly embarrassed by his gaze, snapped back the claps and opened the lid. At first she just stared down at the Shelton sapphires lying on their bed of velvet, then she looked up at him with the puzzled suspicion of a child. "Is it a joke?" she asked carefully. For a moment he frowned, his black, straight eyebrows meeting in a forbidding line above his eyes, then his whole face softened.

"Certainly it's not a joke," he said a little brusquely. "The ear-rings will be too old for you at present, I think, but the ring should fit. My mother had very small hands." It was too much. The bleak Christmas, Mrs. Duffy and the holly, Garth's anger and Garth's kindness, and now on top of it all, the Shelton sapphires. Maggy thrust the case back into his hands and burst into tears. "My dear child, what an extraordinary reaction!" he remarked slowly. Maggy stood there weeping, and trying to explain. "I can't take them - I won't," she sobbed. "I - I'm not entitled to wear them." "You're my wife, Maggy. Have you forgotten?" "I'm not your wife," she cried angrily. "At least - oh, can't you see! I came here to do a job, and there's nothing for me to do. Nobody wants me here - you don't want me here." She stared at him through her tears with a courage born of long un- happiness. "I've often wanted to ask you. Why did you marry me?" She couldn't see the fleeting pain in his face, but she heard the weariness in his voice as he said: "Come over here and sit beside me, and I'll try and explain." There was a low stool close to the fire, and she dragged it close to his chair and sat down. He didn't speak at once, but she felt his hand idly playing with her hair. "I don't know that I can explain, after all," he said then. "When a man is sick as I'm sick, he has strange impulses. I think perhaps I had a

desire to leave something of my own behind me and - not be lonely at the end. Can you understand that?" She turned swiftly, and raised her wet young face to his. "Oh, yes - yes, I can," she said, and a deep compassion filled her. "But I never thought you felt like that. You seemed so - so indifferent - so detached. I could never get at you." He smiled a little sadly. "You weren't meant to get at me," he told her. "Detachment - that was easy. I've always been that way inclined. Indifference - well, any doctor will tell you that shock produces many curious results. Indifference is one. But nature, I suppose, is always incalculable. Emotions become fluid again even when limbs can't." She listened without interrupting, blinking back the tears. She only half understood what he was trying to tell her, and she had an idea that he was talking to himself as much as to het. He looked at her suddenly. "Johnny thinks I ought to send you away." She looked bewildered. "Did he say so?" she asked, wondering in what way she had failed in Johnny's eyes. "No. But Johnny's a shrewd chap. He sees further than most." "But why?"

"For your own sake, I think. When I used to see you going about that dreary spa you seemed different. I hadn't realized how young you were, or how vulnerable. It was a mistake." "You don't think," blurted out Maggy before she could stop herself, "that I would embarrass you by - by falling in love with you?" He smiled then, and looked at her a little strangely. "No, Maggy, I don't think that," he said gently. "Your time will come. But you have a tender heart - even for a stranger." "You've never talked like this to me before," she said wonderingly. "You seem to know much more about me than I do about you." "Perhaps I wasn't as detached as I appeared." "Wouldn't it be easier if we could be like this instead?" she asked simply. "No!" he said a little roughly. "You'll find as time goes on that detachment has a priceless value." "I shouldn't find it very easy - to be detached, I mean," she said seriously. "Probably not at nineteen," he said a little dryly. "But try and remember just the same - if you stop on at Floyne." Was he trying to warn her against a dawning emotion he half suspected? He had once told her that the chief thing which had attracted him about her was the fact that she was never sorry for him. For the first time dread leapt at her. He might die in a month, in a week, tomorrow; and she understood in full Mackinnon's warning: "It's not nice waiting for someone to die — even a stranger." And tonight Garth was no longer a stranger. He was the silent companion

of nearly three strange, lonely months, and Maggy didn't want to leave Floyne. He saw the momentary panic in her eyes, and his own were wary. But she said very simply: "I'll remember. I would like to do something for you." He smiled. "Then will you wear my sapphires? It will give me very great pleasure if you can bring yourself to feel, as I do, that you are entitled to them." She nodded, and he took the necklace from its case and fastened it round her neck. She didn't know how to thank him, and when he had slipped the ring over her finger above her wedding ring she sat silently staring down at the big, square-cut stone, the tears threatening to come again. "Will you do one more thing for me?" he asked, and she looked up swiftly, eager to please him. "Will you play the Bach Chorale for me?" She went gladly to the piano, and as that familiar, flowing music filled the room she knew again its never-failing release. He watched her sitting at the piano, the light catching the sapphires against her white skin, and smiled when she said at the end : "It's a kind of perpetual motion. There's no reason why it should ever stop." "That's probably the secret of its balm," he said. "Play some more, Maggy."

She played snatches of German lieder, and old carols of many countries, and he said afterwards: "Perhaps we've kept Christmas after all, though I don't see the holly you were so anxious to put up." She told him about Mrs. Duffy and the holly, and his face darkened. "She had no right to take that attitude - no right at all," he said angrily. "I shall have to speak to her again." "I think that makes it worse," said Maggy wryly. "She resents me quite enough as it is." "All the same, I'm not going to have that sort of thing going on in my house," he said. "If Duffy can't behave herself, then she can go. If it weren't for Floyne, she'd far rather be in Eunice's employ than mine. I've always known that." "But she's devoted to you," protested Maggy. "She's a loyal servant when it suits her," was his enigmatical retort. She would have liked to ask him if he really minded her friendship with Rory O'Malley, but she didn't want to provoke that earlier mood of the afternoon. Already the closer thread between them had slackened, as if in speaking of the housekeeper he had been reminded of more bitter memories. The familiar air of detachment was beginning to mask his face. He looked very tired. "I think I'll say good night now," Maggy said at last. She picked up the empty jewel cases and stood uncertainly with them clasped to her breast. "I haven't thanked you at all for my Christmas present. I don't know how."

He grinned suddenly, and she had a momentary glimpse of an unsuspected impish humour. "I'd like to have watched my dear sister's face if she could have seen you rejecting the Shelton sapphires with such unflattering emphasis," he said. "It would have done her greedy little soul a power of good!"

CHAPTER IX JANUARY was bitterly cold, and snow came to take the place of the rain to which Maggy had become so accustomed. Even the blazing turf fires could not warm the big, stone-flagged rooms at Floyne, and Mrs. Duffy had all meals served in the small breakfast room. Ice lay at the edges of the loch, and there was ice each morning in the oldfashioned ewer in Maggy's bedroom. She liked to walk when she could to the Shamus Stone and look at the changed country in its covering of white, but Garth seemed opposed to walks on the moor. Bog holes hidden by the snow were dangerous, he said, and the moors treacherous for one who didn't know them. Indeed, for a little while, it was impossible to venture out at all. The roads were ice-bound and the tradesmen from Galway were unable to deliver to houses as isolated as Floyne. Maggy returned to her cataloguing, but even with an extra sweater and a coat, her fingers grew so numb that she was obliged to abandon her task after an hour, and seek the warmth of a fire. It was difficult in these snow-bound days to fill the hours between breakfast and bedtime, and the snow seemed to affect Garth, confining him to his own room with bad headaches. But Maggy was bolder now. Christmas had seemed to mark a subtle change in their relations, and on the second occasion he was not well enough to leave his room, she sent a message by Doolan asking if she could see him. It was late afternoon and the room was already shadowy, for the shutters had been half closed to keep out the hard snow light from outside. She stood by the bed looking down at him and thinking how long he seemed. It was the first time she had seen him out of his wheelchair. He was always very fastidious in the matter .of his

appearance, and even now, after a bad night and day, his face was smoothly shaven and his thick hair neatly brushed. He opened his eyes and smiled at her rather wearily. "What did you want to see me about, Maggy? he asked. "Nothing," she said. "I just came to see how you were. I thought there was perhaps something I could do." He looked surprised, as if he was unused to people enquiring for him. "There's nothing you can do," he said, and moved his head impatiently. "It'll pass. It's only a bad head. I don't sleep very well." "I could take it away," she said diffidently. "You? I doubt it, Maggy." "Will you let me try?' He sighed. "Go ahead. As long as I don't have to talk." Careful not to jolt him, she balanced herself on the edge of the bed just behind the pillows and began to stroke his forehead and temples. At first she could fell him stiffening to resistance, and she wondered if he was one of those people who dislike being touched, but after a bit he relaxed, and closing his eyes, yielded to the gentle pressure of her fingers. "Are my hands too cold?" she asked him once. He replied without opening his eyes.

"No. Don't stop." She sat for a long time, working rhythmically and studying the room which she had seen only once before. It was curious, she reflected, how impersonal Floyne was. Even this room, which had evidently been Garth's study in other days, gave little hint of his own tastes. There was a row of silver cups, won presumably at shows and pointto-points, and a rack for hunting crops hung on one wall. But there were no crops on it and no photographs of any kind in the room. One would expect photographs with a man who had been such a keen horseman, and the cups bore evidence that he had owned some firstclass winners. After the accident had he ordered all reminders of those days to be swept away, just as he had ordered his horses to be sold? Yes, thought Maggy compassionately, that was consistent with the little she knew of him. He had shut himself away in an impersonal world of his own, and would not want any reminder of times that were done with forever. It was nearly dark now. Her limbs were beginning to get stiff and cold from her cramped position. She bent over him cautiously. He was breathing regularly and peacefully and seemed to be asleep. He didn't stir when she moved, and she slipped quietly out of the room and told Doolan not to disturb him until dinner time. He seemed better after that, and when the next attack came he sent for Maggy without waiting for her to come. Sometimes she stayed with him when Doolan had settled him for the night, for she seemed able to make him sleep. Then he became just a voice in the darkness, and she felt she came nearer to knowing him. But with the lighting of the lamp a little of the old constraint fell between them, and she was conscious again of his quiet, inanimate body, his unrevealing eyes. "It's extraordinary," he said to her once. "You really can take away pain."

"My father used to get headaches from overwork," she told him. "I could nearly always take them away." "Tell me about your father," he said, and she began to describe the rectory, and her father and Ellen. She even made him laugh with stories about some of the parishioners and Ellen's methods of dealing with them, and as she described her old life, the little struggles, the simple pleasures, the hard work at her music, the annual fortnight with her father on a Sussex farm, she was unaware of the nostalgia in her voice. "You must have been very happy," he said a little sadly. "My father was a happy person," she replied. "We never had much money, but it didn't seem to matter." "No, I don't think it does if you have other things." She thought he sounded almost envious. "But when your parents were alive, didn't you —" She broke off, not knowing quite what she had meant to ask. He gave a small crooked smile. "My parents weren't in the least like that," he said. "Eunice and I were brought up to be seen and not heard in the good old- fashioned way. I don't think we've ever been a family to inspire much affection in each other." "Oh," Maggy said rather blankly. She found it difficult to imagine a childhood without affection, but thinking of Garth and Eunice she was bound to admit there was little enough there. "My parents didn't believe in an equal footing between parents and children. A great many of their generation were the same," he said,

and added with an odd expression: "There's at least this to be said for their methods. By the time life ups and deals you a dirty one you've learnt not to expect much from human relationships." "Oh," said Maggy quickly, "I'm sure you're wrong. If you haven't affection to build on you're left with nothing." He looked at her strangely. "Perhaps you're right," he said slowly. "I've never thought about it." It was the nearest he ever got to speaking of himself. Through the long evenings together he often encouraged Maggy to talk of old times. He seemed to enjoy hearing about a childhood which must have been so different from his own, but he never alluded to his life before the accident, and Maggy had the impression that he wished to forget it. With the knowledge that in such small ways she could be of service to him, she lost much of her old constraint with him. She had ceased to feel awkward at his long silences, knowing that her presence no longer irritated him. Sometimes he would put down his book and ask with genuine interest of what she was thinking, and quite often she continued a train of thought aloud, watching his old detachment lift for a while as he listened. But this closer intimacy had its darker side. Each day she came to know him better brought a sharper realisation of what lay before her. "Don't think," he had once said to her, but there was little else to do at Floyne, She tried to marshal her thoughts into the right channels, and told herself repeatedly that death, when it came, could only be a release for him. She had no right to resent him his indifference to life. She was only a guest in his house, bearing his name for a brief while. He had come into her life as a stranger, and as a stranger he would go out of it, but she knew she would miss him abominably.

One morning she woke to the infinitesimal sounds of shifting ice in die- grounds below her windows. The thaw had come. Brown patches of moor were already appearing in the white, unbroken surface which had greeted her eyes for so many days, and the leaden look had lifted from the sky.. Maggy hurried through her breakfast, anxious to get out of doors while the weak sunlight lasted. Bridgit had said it would turn to rain before nightfall. As she was lacing up her shoes in the hall, Mrs. Duffy came out of the drawing room, where she had been dusting the glass in the cabinet. "Are you for the Shamus Stone this day?" she asked. "I don't know," Maggy replied, surprised at the housekeeper's affability. "I hadn't really thought where I would go." "Try the Castledrum road and the Plain of Cluny. 'Tis nearer, an' will be a change for ye, ma'am," Mrs. Duffy suggested, and went silently away to her own quarters. It was a relief to walk after so many days in the house, and she thought with pity of Garth, who had not been able to walk for nearly a year. Did he never, she wondered with amazement, long to feel the springy turf under his feet, under his horse's hoofs? Did he really not care that a wheelchair was the limit of his activities, he who had loved speed, or had he schooled himself to such a state of mind that he could watch others without envy? It puzzled her very much, this apparent lack of resentment in him. He had so much to leave that made life worth while, and if he appeared friendless, that surely was his own doing.

She walked further than she had intended along the Castledrum road, lost in her own thoughts, and turned off to take a short cut home across the Plain of Cluny, a piece of moor she didn't know very well. Here the sun had not penetrated very much, and in places the snow lay thickly, covering bog and heather alike with treacherous smoothness. Several times Maggy slipped and fell, and the suction on her shoes should have warned her that she was heading for bog. She was in it before she saw the spiky tips of the reeds piercing the snowy surface, and the icy water rose to her waist. Instinctively she fought to free herself, but with every movement she sank deeper, and her panic gave way to stark fear. Bridgit had terrible stories of cattle being sucked under bogs in the space of minutes, and once a drunken farmer returning from market had fallen in the Black Bog and been rescued only in the nick of time. She tried to pull herself out by tufts of reeds, but they came away in her hands, and her own tracks in the snow were only cheerless testimony of how near she was to firmer ground. She remembered Bridgit saying that you must never fight a bog for it only sucked you in further, and she gathered all her courage to remain still. She could just see the Castledrum road, but it was a lonely piece of road at all times, and since the snow had come the chances of a passer-by were very slim. The minutes seemed endless to Maggy, waist-deep in the icy slime, her teeth chattering with fear and bitter cold, her eyes fixed on the Castledrum road. Would they become anxious at Floyne, she wondered, when she didn't return for lunch? And with that thought her spirits rose. Mrs. Duffy at least knew where she had gone. It was very quiet. Only her own thumping heart and the sharp little snapping noises of the thaw broke the frightening stillness. Then, as she was wondering how long it would take to be completely sucked

under, another sound broke the silence. The sound of a horse's hoofs on the thawing road, and the crisp crackle of wheels.

Maggy shouted with all the strength that was left in her. She could see the horse and trap now, proceeding with slow caution along the slippery road. Would she ever make the driver hear? She shouted again and the horse stopped. With an effort that made her sink further into the bog, Maggy shouted again, and a figure jumped down from the trap and started running across the moor in the direction of the bog. "Coming!I" called a familiar voice. "Hold on!" It caused her no surprise that Rory should be her rescuer. He had a habit of being there when needed. He followed her tracks to the edge of the bog, then lay down full length and stretched out a hand. "Come on, you can make it," he said encouragingly. , Once, twice, she reached out to him and couldn't touch him, but the third time she managed it. A firm hand caught her in a grip of iron and started to pull. At first it seemed as if she was being sucked in further with every effort, but Rory wriggled nearer the edge and took firm hold of both her wrists. "Just relax, and leave it to me," he said, and grinned reassuringly. "I'll have you out in no time." Maggy grinned back. "It must be the Little People have hold of my feet," she said shakily.

Slowly he drew her out of the quaking mass which squelched and bubbled at each movement, and at last, when the pain in her arm sockets seemed unendurable, she Was lying beside him on the snowflecked heather. "And what possessed you," he demanded severely, "to walk across the Plain of Cluny in the snow?" Maggy sat up and surveyed what she could see of herself with dismay. "What a ghastly mess," she said, then turned eyes that were still wide and dark with shock upon Rory. "If it hadn't been for you -" she said, and stopped, shuddering. "You must thank my Aunt Kate with her pestilential insistence that I took a horse and trap on these treacherous roads to Mulligan's to carry back a load of oats," he said lightly, and pulled her quickly to her feet. "You're drenched through, Little Bridgit. I must get you back to Floyne before you die of pneumonia on me; How long had you been in that confounded bog?" "I don't know. What's the time now?" "Two o'clock, near as no matter." "I'll be frightfully late for lunch," she said childishly. "Garth likes punctuality." He helped her into the trap and wrapped a rug round her, but her teeth were still chattering as they drove up the treeless bleak approach to Floyne. Shock and the cold were making her feel a little light-headed, so that it was no surprise when the front door swung open at the sound of their approach, and Garth himself wheeled his chair on to the porch.

At the sight of Rory his face hardened, but all he said was: "Another time, Maggy, if you're going to be out to lunch you might leave word with Duffy, We've been waiting since one o'clock." "You might have had to wait considerably longer if I hadn't happened along," Rory said cheerfully. "I found her up to her waist in a bog." Maggy got down from the trap, and for the first time Garth saw the condition of her clothes and the whiteness of her face. "Where on earth have you been?" he asked sharply, and Rory answered for her. "The Plain of Cluny!" Garth exclaimed. "But didn't you know that it has one of the worst bogs in the West of Ireland? Good God, child! You aren't safe to be out alone!" Maggy opened her mouth to say that Mrs. Duffy had not warned her of the bog, then shut it again and stood there staring at him. Mrs. Duffy had clearly said: "Try the Casdedrum road and the Plain of Cluny. 'Tis nearer and will be a change." She had said nothing about the bog, which she must have known would be hidden by the snow. Garth saw the little colour there was in her face drain away, leaving it white and pinched. "You must be drenched," he said quickly. "Go straight upstairs and have a hot bath. I'll send you up some whiskey." Rory, an odd expression on his face, had climbed back into the trap. He didn't appear to expect to be asked into the house. Garth said rather stiffly: "Thank you, Rory. I owe you a debt for this."

"And for something else, I think, as things have turned out," Rory said, and gathering up his reins he turned his horse's head and drove off without another word. Despite the whiskey and the bath, Maggy couldn't get warm. The erratic water system of Floyne was not at its best in the afternoon and the water had been tepid. Maggy huddled over a fire for. the rest of the afternoon, alternately dozing and thinking of Mrs. Duffy. The housekeeper had hastened into the hall when Maggy came down again and burst into voluble speech. "Oh, ma'am! To think of you gettin' in the bog!" she exclaimed. "I'll never forgive myself, indeed and indeed!" Her little black eyes darted to Garth, " 'Twas I said to Mrs. Shelton: 'Try the Casdedrum road,' I said, 'by the Plain of Cluny,' and never thought to mention the bog, for sure, doesn't everyone know it? ' 'Twould be a nice change from the Shamus Stone,': I said, but I never thought to mention the bog." Garth's eyes rested on her thoughtfully for a moment. "Careless of you, Duffy," was all he said, however, and wheeled his chair into the library. He watched Maggy with concern as she shivered in her chair. "I'm afraid you've caught a chill," he said. "How long were you in the water?" "I don't know - it seemed hours. I suppose about half an hour, really," she replied. "I think you would be wise to go to bed."

"Not before tea," said Maggy childishly. But she couldn't eat much tea when it came, and by six o'clock two bright 'spots of colour burned in her cheeks and she! ached in every limb. Garth rang for Doolan and told him to fetch a thermometer. "Just as I thought - a hundred and two," he said. "Off to bed, young woman, and if your temperature isn't down in the morning I'm sending for Johnny." Maggy spent a restless night. From having been so cold she was now uncomfortably hot. The feather mattress was suffocating, and her pillows seemed stuffed with lumps. The fitful sleep which visited her brought dreams of the Plain of Cluny and Mrs. Duffy's bright, inscrutable eyes, and the feather bed seemed like the bog itself sucking her down to unspeakable depths. When the morning came, Bridgit found her tossing and feverish and talking wildly about a feather bog, and she hastened down to Doolan, who was waiting to convey a message to his master. "Och, we're destroyed entirely," she cried. "Her two eyes is like saucers and the wild speech on her do be puttin' me in mind av me brother's sweetheart who died of the consumption." Half an hour later, Maggy's door opened quietly and Garth wheeled himself into the room. She sat up in bed, clear-headed with surprise. "How did you get up here?" she asked in a husky voice. "Doolan and one of the gardeners carried me," he said briefly, and wheeled his chair up to the bed. He looked at her propped against her pillows in the enormous four-poster and smiled. "What in the world did they put you in this vast bed for?"

"It isn't a bed, it's a bog," she explained very carefully. "Feel it, it squelches." His expression altered. "I'm going to take your temperature, and then I'm sending for Johnny," he said quietly. The thermometer registered nearly a hundred and four. Garth shook it down deliberately, then went to the door and called to Doolan. "Go down to Mulligan's and ring up for Dr. Moore to come out here at once," he said. "I'll stay with Mrs. Shelton till he- comes." Maggy slept fitfully through the morning.. When she opened her eyes she could see Garth sitting by the bed in the wheelchair, and couldn't think how he had got there. Perhaps he was like the Cheshire cat. If she looked long enough he would disappear. "But I don't want you to disappear," she said plaintively. "I like it when you're there." "I won't disappear," he assured her gravely. "Try and sleep." Once she said: " 'Sabrina fair, Listen where thou art sitting -' How does it go on?" " 'Under the glassie, cool, translucent wave' - don't talk, Maggy." Johnny didn't get out till lunch-time. He had had a busy morning, he said, and the roads were still pretty bad. He looked a little curiously at Garth, whom he had not expected to find up stairs, then crossed over to the bed. "Well, my poor child, what have you been doing to yourself?" he said.

Maggy gave a little sigh. "Oh J Johnny, you said you'd look after me if I was ill, didn't you? I'm not really ill, but I can't get out of the bog," she said, and began to cry. He took her wrist and placed his fingers on her pulse. "Don't you worry your head about that," he said cheerfully. "We'll have you out in no time." "Thank you," said Maggy, and seemed more relieved. "Mrs. Duffy pushed me in, you know." Johnny stayed most of the afternoon, and when he left the fever had dropped and she was sleeping. "We're lucky that we haven't to contend with pneumonia, or even rheumatic fever," he told Garth over a late tea in the library ."As it is she has a touch of congestion, but I don't think you need worry. That dope I've left you will bring the temperature down and a good night's sleep will work wonders. What puzzles me is this Duffy business. She insists the woman, pushed her in the bog, and I don't think it's all lightheadedness." Garth frowned. "That's puzzled me," he admitted. "Duffy apparently suggested the walk to Maggy but never warned her about the bog. She said she thought she knew, and of course everyone round here does know about the Plain of Cluny." "Everyone except Maggy, apparently," remarked Johnny ' quietly. "But it's absurd!" Garth exclaimed impatiently. "Duffy couldn't have deliberately -"

"Possibly not," said Johnny. "But if she were my servant I'd get rid of her - for many reasons." His shrewd eyes rested on Garth's tired face. He looked strained and rather old. "How are you yourself?" he asked gently. Garth's cold eyes were immediately guarded. "Just the same, thanks. My concern at the moment is for Maggy," he said briefly. Johnny rose to go and stood looking down at his brother-in- law with a curious expression. "You could have made her a good husband despite the difference of age," he said strangely. "Well, I'll be looking in first thing tomorrow. Get a good night's rest yourself if you can." For several days Maggy was content to lie in blissful idleness, sleeping, and in a waking state of drowsy forgetfulness, the changing light on the high ceiling her only indication of the passing hours. At first the fever left her too weak to do more than glance at the books which Garth daily sent up to her, but by the end of the week she had grown tired of her own company and was worrying Johnny to let her get up. Garth didn't come again himself, but sent her formal little messages by Bridgit. Bridgit also brought other messages. Mary Kate prepared special dishes and sent them up with anxious enquiries; Norah's nephew in the Civil Guard sent her magazines which eventually found their way to Maggy's room, and old Casey picked the first snowdrops and laid them on her breakfast tray. Maggy was both touched and surprised that the servants should think of her, and she resolved that when she was well again she would effect closer contact with them, despite Mrs. Duffy.

Mrs. Duffy herself came each morning to enquire for Maggy, asserting loudly her remorse that she had failed to remind her that the Plain of Cluny was dangerous to the uninitiated. She insisted that she had advised Maggy to try the Castledrum road for a change, and that it had never entered her head that anyone would try and cross the Plain of Cluny in the snow. Oh, well, thought Maggy, perhaps she had misunderstood. Things had become a little confused since she had been ill. "An' you'll be goin' away for a while when the "doctor lets you down?" the housekeeper said, watching Maggy with her bright black eyes. "No. Why should I?" Maggy sounded surprised. " 'Twould be a bit of a change. Floyne is no place for a young girl," suggested the woman persuasively. The colour rose in Maggy's thin face. "I shall not be leaving Floyne yet awhile, Mrs. Duffy," she said clearly. No, it was not imagination. Mrs. Duffy had distinctly said: "Try the Castledrum road an' the Plain of Cluny. 'Tis nearer…'

But Johnny himself echoed the housekeeper's wish when he came to see her for the last time. It was her first day downstairs, and she lay on a sofa in front of the library fire looking forward to Mary Kate's baps and hot potato cakes for tea. "You ought to get away for a bit, Maggy," Johnny said. "Have you friends in England you could go to f "

She looked at him in quick dismay. "But I don't want to go away," she said. "And I haven't any friends." He looked thoughtful. "Still, I think you should get away from Floyne for a while. I'll speak to Garth," he said, and watched the mounting panic in her eyes. "You don't understand," she said very quickly. "I can't leave Floyne just now." "Any special reason?" She stared into the fire and the delicate colour rose gently under her skin. "I expect you've wondered why Garth married me," she said then. "I've wondered why you married him," he said gently. "You weren't in love with him." "No, I barely knew him." She continued to stare into the fire, avoiding his shrewd eyes. "Johnny, I was companion to a horrid old woman who was staying in the same hotel. Garth and I used to say good evening to each other. Sometimes he talked to me a little...I never even knew what his christian name was until we were married... It was a - a sort of business arrangement, and - it isn't time for me to leave Floyne yet." There was a brief silence, then Johnny asked very quietly: "How long did they give him, Maggy?" She looked at him and then her eyes were soft and starded.

"How did you know? Did he tell you? " she said. Johnny lit a cigarette and threw the spent match into the grate. "I've suspected for some time," he said slowly. "Little things he said, his refusal to let me examine him, and later, you yourself. Besides, it was the only explanation I could find for this marriage. He was obviously a stranger to you, and I didn't think he would have married at all in the circumstances unless there was some special reason. I suppose you never thought at the time that you were undertaking a very disagreeable job?" "It seemed," said Maggy unhappily, "just another job— like nursing or anything. I have to earn my living, you see, and I've no real qualifications." "I see. And what are the terms of your bargain? I take it Garth's made some provision?" "Oh, yes, he was very generous. He's settled an annuity on me - so that I won't have to be a companion to old ladies any more. The only thing that worries me is that I'm so little use to him. He doesn't really need a companion at all." Her smooth forehead wrinkled in distress. "I asked him once why he had married me, and he said he wanted to leave something of his own behind him and not be lonely at the end. Do you understand that, Johnny?" He gave a sharp sigh, and the long ash of his cigarette dropped unheeded on to his waistcoat. "Yes," he said. "When it comes to the point, very few of us want to die alone." "Then you think-"

"I think," he interrupted a little roughly, "that life seldom works out as one plans it. There is always the human factor to be accounted for no matter how dispassionately we plan, and the human factor is apt to be disconcerting." She didn't altogether understand him, but suddenly she was afraid. The first exquisite relief in being able to talk freely to someone was drowned in fear of Johnny's next words. He was too wise, too farseeing for her to understand as yet, and truth was sometimes frightening. Garth's entrance put an end to the conversation, and Maggy turned to greet him with relief. "Hullo!" she said, and watched him with anxious inquiry as he wheeled himself across the room. She hadn't seen him for over a week. He brought his chair alongside her sofa with the deft little turn she knew so well, and looked down at her critically. "Well, you look as if a puff of Wind would blow you away," he remarked with a smile. "But Johnny assures me of your progress, so I suppose it's all right. It's good to see you down again, my dear." She flushed at the unusual warmth in his voice, aid reflected that his eyes weren't really cold, only a clear, penetrating grey. Johnny watched them both with a thoughtful expression. "I'm well now," Maggy said quickly. "Johnny says J can go out in a day or two." "Is that right, Johnny?" asked Garth. "She doesn't look very strong to me."

"She's all right. A bit run down, but she knows my treatment for that," replied Johnny shortly. Garth raised his eyebrows. "What is it? I must see that she obeys orders." Johnny smiled kindly at Maggy. "I doubt if it would be effective in the circumstances," he said, and got up to go.. They listened to "the sound of his car dying away down the drive, then Garth said: "How are you really feeling?" "Oh, miles better. It's only my legs that are still a bit wonky," she said, and immediately felt embarrassed. For a moment his old Sardonic expression returned, and he said a little mockingly: "Don't let the fact that my legs are more than wonky prevent you from referring to yours." She smiled uncertainly, and for the first time wondered what it would be like if he were able to move about, to carry her downstairs in his arms as Johnny had done. "What is this treatment that brother Johnny was so mysterious about? "he asked. "He wanted me to go away for a bit," Maggy said. "But I told him I had no friends and anyway I didn't want to go."

"Oh, I see." His expression changed. "And supposing I said you were to go?" Maggy's eyes filled with the easy tears of convalescence. "But you wouldn't," she pleaded, and would have said more had Norah not brought the tea in at that moment. He didn't refer to the subject again just then, but later in the evening he said suddenly : "Maggy, about this question of your going away. I've been thinking for some time that it would be the best thing." "Why?" "Oh, for many good reasons." "Do you want me to go?" He moved impatiently. "That's neither here nor there. But if you must have a reason, then say I want you to go." She seemed to shrink into her corner of the sofa. "If you really want to send me away," she said, "I've no choice, have I? I can always try and get another job." A look of pain crossed his face. ' "That wouldn't be necessary," he said coldly. "If you remember, I've made provision for any sudden eventuality." But she had seen that momentary flash of pain. She was no longer afraid of his coldness. She slipped off the sofa and on to the floor beside his chair.

"If it's for my sake," she began tentatively, "don't think I don't realise that - that things will be difficult for me. I know that. I still want to stay." Her face was averted and the long, soft hair almost hid her profile from him. He tucked a strand behind her ear. "It's not altogether for your sake," he said gently. She looked up then, trying to read his face. "Do you want me to go?" she asked again, but this time he had no immediate answer. "I would like," she said, feeling carefully for words, "to be able to look back on this time and - and feel I had helped. I know you so little, but that would comfort me very much. Can you understand?" He looked at her strangely. "Yes. I think so." "Then — as long as I don't worry you —" "You don't worry me, Maggy." "- you'll let me stay? " He regarded her gravely without speaking for a moment, then straightened the rug across his knees with a deliberate gesture, "Perhaps we neither of us have much choice," he said. "Very well, Maggy. We won't speak of it again."

CHAPTER X WITH the coming of February a new softness visited the moor. There were gentle days when the savagery of the hills was lost in grapeblue shadow and the brown bogs showed patches of brilliant green. Tinkers came to the gates of Floyne peddling their wares and telling fortunes, and there were early lambs among the little horned mountain sheep. Spring was not far off, and Maggy with the scent of the crushed bog myrtle under her feet knew her first affection for this wild country. "I can understand;" she said to Rory, "why the Irish believe in fairies. There's a spell on this country. It isn't quite real." "In the spring," Rory said half seriously, "the old gods return to Ireland. Cuchullain and the Red Branch Knights, Kehar of the Battles and the sons of Usna." There were soft days when fog crept up from the sea and the moor and the hills were blotted out for days, and Floyne was a gaunt imprisoned monster. Then suddenly the sun would break through and the hills rose from the vanishing mist in fresh beauty, and Maggy could believe that it was not so long ago that the old gods trod the shores of Ireland. How beautiful they are, the lordly ones, who dwell in the kills, the hollow hills.... She met Rory several times at. the Shamus Stone, and once he took her to the Plain of Cluny and showed her the great mass of shifting bog now plainly distinguishable from the heather. Maggy shuddered as she looked at the evil, bubbling slime. "If it hadn't been for you-"

He glanced at her curiously. "I've often wondered - what made you go there in the snow when you couldn't see where you Were walking?" "Mrs. Duffy suggested it. She said afterwards that she thought I knew about the bog and she had told me to keep to the road. But she didn't. She distinctly said, 'Try the Castledrum road and the Plain of Cluny.' Rory -" Maggy's eyes darkened with an old fear - "do you think she meant to kill me?" "No," he said quickly. "Duffy's a mischief-maker, but I don't think she's a murderess. At best she probably hoped you'd get a fright and a bad cold." "But why? I've never done her any harm." , "She wants Floyne for Eunice." He hesitated, then. said gently: "You see, no one ever expected Garth to marry. In the natural course of events Floyne and the Shelton jewels would have gone to Eunice and her children. Duffy probably had some half-baked notion of driving you away. Garth never intended to come back to Floyne after the accident, you know." "Oh, I see," said Maggy, and remembered Garth saying: "She's a loyal servant when it suits her," and wondered why he kept the woman on. But that was like him. She did her job efficiently and he was too indifferent to make a change. With her mind still full of these matters she returned alone to Floyne and found her sister-in-law's small car standing in front of the house. Maggy's heart sank. She would never feel at home with Eunice as long as she lived, besides which her rare visits always upset Garth and left him irritable.

They were in the drawing-room drinking sherry, and Maggy thought Garth hailed her with relief. "Hullo!" Eunice drawled. "Recovered from your experience in the bog? I must say you don't look as if there's much wrong with you now. Johnny was quite worried. It's quite extraordinary, my dear Garth, how you men always end by falling for something shy and simple. Is it the contrast, do you suppose?" Contrast to what? thought Maggy uncomfortably, and Garth said with an edge to his voice: "If Maggy's shy, your remarks are scarcely calculated to make her feel at home." "Don't you believe it. The quiet ones are always the dark horses. I hear Rory O'Malley pulled you out, Maggy." "Yes, he did," said Maggy, and with an odd little smile Eunice put down her empty sherry glass and began wandering round the room. Garth sat frowning and silent, while Maggy sipped her sherry with acute discomfort. "Hullo!" Eunice had paused in front of the glass cabinet. "What on earth is this bad piece of fake doing amongst your collection?" She opened the cabinet and took out Maggy's goblet. Maggy felt herself flushing. "I gave it to Garth for Christmas," she said apologetically. "The man said it was genuine." "My dear child!" Eunice's voice sounded amused. "Never believe an Irishman when he's trying to sell you something. This thing wouldn't deceive a fly. And you really oughtn't to keep it with the rest of this priceless stuff."

Garth's voice was as cold as ice. "Put it back, please, Eunice. I happen to value it," he said. Maggy threw him a grateful glance. It had been nice of him not to tell her at the time that the goblet was a fake. But he was not looking at her. "Where are the children?" he asked brusquely. "It must be nearly lunch time." "Oh, gossiping with Duffy, I expect." Eunice said carelessly, and Maggy felt a fresh dismay. Her only meeting with Garth's young nephew and niece had not been exactly encouraging. The children came noisily into the room at that moment and announced that lunch was ready. Kathy stared coldly at Maggy and remarked that she had not expected to see her. "Duffy said you'd gone to the Shamus Stone to meet Rory O'Malley," she said. "Duffy says he doesn't come to the house anymore." "Perhaps Uncle Garth doesn't like him any more," said Michael, cheerfully. "Shut up and don't make silly remarks," said Garth, looking at the children with dislike. Lunch was an uncomfortable meal. Garth wore his most forbidding look, Eunice seemed secretly amused about something, and the children made precocious and pointed remarks, until finally checked by Garth in no uncertain terms, they relapsed into sulky silence. "Really, Garth, they're entitled to their opinions," drawled Eunice with an aggravating smile.

"While they're sitting at my table they aren't," he retorted. "If you must bring your brats here, Eunice, you can see to it that they behave themselves." "They aren't brought up as we were, my dear," she said. "More's the pity, though the old system doesn't appear to have done much for your manners." The Sheltons were invariably rude to each other. To Maggy's relief, Eunice didn't stay long after lunch. She was, she said, going on to tea with Eileen Fitzgerald. For politeness' sake Maggy went with her to the front door. "Duffy tells me you see quite a lot of Rory," Eunice remarked, pulling on her gloves in the porch. "Any news of Sabrina? " Because it was so unexpected, the name took Maggy completely by surprise. "Sabrina?" she echoed stupidly. Eunice's dark face lit with a faint malice. "Oh, isn't she mentioned?" she laughed. "Well, good-bye, Maggy. I'm beginning to feel quite sorry for you tied to Garth's wheelchair and his ill-tempers. But you doubtless have your consolations." Maggy watched her drive away with a feeling very like hate in her heart. Eunice and Mrs. Duffy with their veiled insinuations, and Sabrina - who was Sabrina! Eunice could have told her, but she would never ask Eunice. She went back into the drawing-room, feeling thankful that her sisterin-law's visits were not more frequent.

Garth was still sitting in his chair, frowning into space. "Maggy," he said without preamble, "I must ask you to stop meeting young O'Malley at the Shamus Stone. I don't care to have the servants talking." She flushed at his tone, and some of the anger she felt towards Eunice was in her voice as she replied: "I can't see any harm in going for occasional walks with a young man." "You'll have plenty of time for that later on," he said coldly, and the implication of his remark struck her like a blow. "You're a hateful family!" she cried impetuously. "Cruel and rude to each other. It's abominable!" "Very true," said Garth indifferently. "But it doesn't alter the facts. I'm asking you to put an end to this little idyll of yours, and since I'm tied to a chair I can't do more than ask." "But it's unreasonable!" Maggy protested. "I have no friends here, and at least he pulled me out of that bog." He looked at her, and then his eyes were no longer cold but bright with anger. "Don't you think that you are protesting overmuch?" he asked. "I'm quite aware that someone of Rory's attractions must relieve the boredom of an unsatisfactory marriage, but you are married, and I don't propose to be made a fool of. Now do you understand, Maggy?" "If it wasn't so absurd," said Maggy slowly, "I'd say you were jealous."

A curious look crossed his face. "Haven't I a right to human emotions?" "You haven't any," said Maggy. A strange expression crossed his face. "And Rory has. Does he make love to you? "But of course he does. He makes love to any woman." The bitterness in his voice checked her anger. "No one's ever made love to me," she told him gently. "At first he was the only person I had to talk to, and I was lonely. I don't know much about lovemaking, but he was the first man to find me attractive. I shall always feel kindly towards him for that." The anger went out of his face. "And I suppose I should have foreseen that," he said wearily, and without another word wheeled himself out of the room. The little scene upset Maggy; Garth's attitude seemed utterly unreasonable to her, and many of his remarks had hurt her badly. Why should he care anyway, that another man had found her attractive? She meant no more to him than any of the servants he employed. What had Johnny said? When it comes to the point, very few of us want to die alone. Her resentment began to peter out. Garth was a sick man. It was sometimes difficult to remember that, for having known him no other way, it seemed to her quite natural that he couldn't move out of his chair. But she had been wrong to flare up. He made few demands on her, and in the circumstances he had a right to expect consideration of a whim, however unreasonable. Sick persons' minds were not normal, Maggy told herself. They exaggerated and brooded on imaginary wrongs. She would apologise

to him tonight, and assure him that she would let Rory know his wishes. But she didn't see him again that day. Doolan brought her a message that his master wasn't so well and would be remaining in his room. He didn't send for Maggy.

She walked the next morning to the Shamus Stone, wondering how best to tell Rory that their meetings must end without implying too personal a reason. As she had been about to start from the house, Mrs. Duffy had said: "Off to the Shamus Stone again, ma'am?" Maggy nodded curtly, very conscious that it had been the housekeeper's gossip which had thrust these innocent meetings under Garth's notice. Mrs. Duffy gave her a strange look. "It's surprising you should be so fond of the Shamus Stone," she said. "It was there the master had his accident. But perhaps you didn't know?" Maggy had not known. She had never yet discovered how that accident had happened, but she was not going to give the woman the satisfaction of asking. Was that perhaps Garth's reason for his dislike of Rory? Did he think that the ill-fated Shamus Stone, besides being the scene of the disaster which had wrecked his life, was also a lovers' trysting place? She wondered with faint surprise why she should mind the ending of this pleasant companionship so little. Rory had meant youth and

laughter, all the things which she had missed since her father's death. Yet, in the face of Garth's unexplained objection, it seemed a small thing to give up to please him. She saw Rory standing on the stone watching for her and he gave a shout and came leaping through the heather to meet her. She watched him, conscious of something lacking in herself that she felt so little response. She had been grateful for his friendship, more grateful still for his admiration, but she contrasted his charm and his active youth with Garth's sombre immobility, and did not find it strange that her desires were chained to that wheelchair. "I can't stay very long," she said. "Garth's not so well and I must get back." He was aware of a new reserve in her, and thought he detected a slight embarrassment as they sat down in the shelter of the pile of rocks. The breeze was stiffening and gulls were wheeling and screaming over Lough Sidhe. "It'll blow tonight," Rory said. "The gulls are well inland. I'm off again tomorrow, Maggy. I shan't see you for about a month." He thought she gave a little sigh of relaxation and grinned suddenly. "Is it a relief?" he asked half-mockingly. * She met his vivid blue eyes apologetically. "It'll make things easier," she admitted. I meant to tell you today that - that I've got to stop seeing you. It does sound silly, doesn't it?" He contemplated her embarrassed face with amusement.. "Does husband Garth suspect a fine intrigue?" he asked. She laughed.

"Not really. But he's sick, and Eunice and those awful children and Mrs. Duffy between them have put funny ideas into his head." "I told you Duffy was a mischief-maker." "Yes, but I think it's partly the Shamus Stone itself. I didn't know till this morning that it was here the accident happened." "A lot of things happen at the Shamus Stone," he said ambiguously. "It has a curse on it." "Do you believe that?" "Perhaps. One believes a lot of funny things in Ireland. But the rationally-minded Garth doesn't believe in curses or fairies. He thinks I've been making love to you." "It all sounds so silly," she said again. "Not so silly," he retorted, and looked at her with kindly mockery. "I could have made love to you at any time, you know, and quite often wanted to." "Did you?" said Maggy, with the surprised curiosity of a child. "Of course. Besides being very attractive you have the added charm of knowing so little about it. I'll never forget how you blushed that first day when I told you you were enchanting. Very refreshing." She blushed again. "I told Garth I should always feel kindly towards you for that," she said simply. He pushed his hands through his red hair, making it stand on end.

"You told him that?" he asked in a curious voice, then he laughed. "Well, I expect that gave him something to think about. I never have understood this marriage of yours, and until I do, little Bridgit-" "What?" She looked faintly alarmed. " 'They took her lightly back, Between the night and morrow. They thought she was fast asleep ...' — until I do, you can stay asleep. You've never been really aware of me as a man, have you? Though you're not so fast asleep as you were, you know." She looked away. "Living with a mind rather than a body does strange things to you," she said half to herself. "Very true," he replied. "But the body will make claims one day. It always does." She didn't altogether understand him, but she remembered how she had wondered what it would be-like if Garth had been able to pick her up in his arms and carry her downstairs. Quite suddenly she asked : "Who is Sabrina?" He looked at her oddly and gave her the most unexpected answer: "She's my cousin." "Your cousin!" Maggy exclaimed, and added inconsequently, "Until yesterday, I always somehow imagined she was dead."

He raised an eyebrow. "Did Garth give you that impression?" "Perhaps. He never spoke of her. No one ever speaks of her, but once I found her name in a book and on an old song. It's a lovely name." His eyes were thoughtful. "I've wondered ever since I first met you," he said slowly. "Didn't you know they were once engaged?" For a moment it came as a shock, then so many things became clearer. Mrs. Duffy's cryptic references, that unexplained Christmas party, even Garth's aversion to Rory who must be associated with so many memories. And she remembered how so long ago now she had played Sabrina's song. "What happened?" "After the accident," Rory said, "Garth refused to allow her to be tied for life to a cripple. She went away to America and he married you. Strange, isn't it?" "Oh!" Maggy shrank back against the rock. "But surely she would-" "Stick by him?" There was a small mocking twist to his lips as if he was secretly laughing at her. "I believe Sabrina was all ready to do her stuff, but you should know by now that the Sheltons are a stubborn lot." "I don't think," said Maggy, making a new discovery, "that Garth would be stubborn if someone really loved him. He's never had much affection, and he's lonely."

"I wouldn't know about that," he said, watching her curiously. "I should think Sabrina never gave affection in her life. Fire, passion, excitement, but not affection." Maggy clasped her hands round her knees and shook the longhair back from her shoulders. "Tell me about her," she said. "Is she as lovely as her name?" He watched a gull wheeling overhead in silence for a moment, then he said: "Yes, I suppose she is. Sabrina is like a flame. She burns you up. A wild tempestuous creature with tremendous vitality. She was crazy for Floyne and the Shelton jewels — and Garth, because he didn't fall for her." "But he was going to many her?" "Oh yes, she got him in the end. She was a magnificent horsewoman among other things, and she finally succeeded in shaking him out of that queer, cold reserve of his. He was crazy about her." Maggy was silent, trying to imagine the Garth of those days, and a remark of old Lady Rynd's popped into her head: He liked 'em highcouraged - like his horses. Sabrina riding his horses, driving his black Lagonda at breakneck speed. No wonder Eunice was amused when she first beheld Maggy. "Oh, poor Garth," she said softly. "I always thought that queer indifference couldn't just be caused by an accident. It isn't natural for a man not to care whether he lives or dies." "Yet he married you," said Rory shrewdly. "That," said Maggy, "is quite different."

He said nothing, but watched her pulling absently at a piece of bog myrtle. She crushed the leaves between her fingers and sniffed. "Sweet," she said, and remembering something she turned to him and asked: "That Christmas party - was that Sabrina's?" He nodded. "She persuaded Garth into it. It was their engagement party. They were to have been married in the spring." Maggy thought of her own Christmas and Garth fastening the sapphires round her neck — the sapphires which should have been Sabrina's. She sprang to her feet and stood for a moment like a little hunted animal in the heather. Rory watched her curiously, then got to his feet. "Has it upset you?" he asked with faint amusement. "No - oh, no," she replied, "only there's so much I haven't understood." She turned, and suddenly she was gone from him without a word of farewell, swiftly through the heather and down the hillside. He watched her go with a slightly twisted expression, then strode away in the opposite direction.

Garth was still remaining in his room, but after lunch Maggy went along the passage and knocked on his door. He wasn't in bed, but she thought he looked very tired as he turned his head at her entrance.

"Are you all right?" she said, regarding him with anxiety* "You look most awfully tired." "I had a bad night," he said. "I quite often do." "Why didn't you send for me P" she demanded. "I've got you to sleep before now." He didn't reply immediately, and she stammered awkwardly like a child. "I - I'm sorry I argued with you yesterday. You have a perfect right to your wishes in your own. house. I won't meet Rory again." He smiled and she was struck again by the change in his face. He looked ill. "It's I who should apologise," he said. "I shouldn't have spoken as I did. See him if you want to, my child. You have little enough pleasure as it is." Her eyes filled with tears. "It would be no pleasure if I thought I was hurting you," she said gently. "I -I understand so much more now, Garth." "Do you? I wonder what?" But she couldn't speak Sabrina's name to him. "Things - connected with you. " He frowned and his eyes were very penetrating.

"Someone been raising ghosts?" he asked, then as she didn't reply: "Ghosts have little substance; remember that, Maggy. And nothing connected with me need trouble you." She crossed over to the chair and curled up on the rug at his feet. "Don't shut me out," she begged. "I don't want to pry or ask questions, but when you shut yourself up in that chilly icehouse it .makes me feel cold." . "Do I shut myself up in a chilly icehouse?" "Isn't that what you want to do?" "No," he said briefly. "It's what I must do." She looked at him with clear eyes. ' "You said yourself that ghosts have little substance." He said strangely: "Let me go as you found me, Maggy. It's better that way." His words gave her a fresh stab of fear. "I wish you'd let me get Johnny over," she said impulsively. "You don't look a bit well." Immediately the old mask closed down again. "There's nothing Johnny can do for me," he said irritably. "If it's going to worry you, Maggy, you'd better not come and visit me on my bad days." She was silent, listening to the wind which was rising steadily. Then feeling she was no longer wanted, she got up to go.

"I'll stay here for the rest of the day, if you don't mind," he said as she walked to the door, then added in gentler tones: "Come and see me after dinner if you can put up with my ill- temper." But when dinner-time came, Doolan brought a message to say his master was going to bed and thought it better if he was not disturbed. Rory had been right. It was blowing hard. Maggy sat alone in the library listening to the wind howling round the house, unable to shake off an unreasoning foreboding. She thought of Sabrina's story and tried to picture her as she must have seemed to Garth: beautiful, passionate, tempestuous as the wind tearing at the windows. She remembered some lines of verse they had read together: I am a quiet gentleman, And I would sit and think; But my wife is walking the whirlwind Through night as black as ink. But what had Garth to do with a love so stormy? Did he still love her, or had she swept by leaving him cold and empty? Bridgit brought her some tea at ten o'clock and stood prepared to chatter. " 'Tis a wild night," she said, rolling her fine eyes like a nervous colt. "They do be sayin' at Mulligan's that Shamus rides again. 'Tis bad luck, I'm tellin' ye." "I'm not surprised at what they might see with Mulligan's raw whiskey inside them," Maggy laughed. "Ah, there's trouble comin'," Bridgit insisted, and added dramatically : "I heard the banshee keenin' meself this very night. Tis a death that means."

Maggy shivered. "Rubbish, Bridgit," she said sharply. "It was the wind. You shouldn't believe this superstitious nonsense." "Nonsense is it!" exclaimed the girl. "An' didn't Micky Doyle see the vixen with his two eyes right there on the Shamus Stone the very night before the master fell off his horse? And the day ye trippit in the bog the lookin'-glass fell down in the servants' hall and was crackit in half which the same is bad luck on the house." "Both quite natural occurrences," retorted Maggy with a confidence she was far from feeling. "Go to bed, Bridgit, or you'll be making me dream." But when, her tea finished, she lighted her candle in the inky hall and started up the stairs, she glanced a little fearfully over her shoulder. It was easy to believe in banshees and the like in the dark corridors of Floyne, with the shadows fleeing before the wavering flame of her candle and the wind moaning round the house. The fire in her room was low and she built up the turfs carefully, as Bridgit had taught her, so that it should last through the night. When she was ready for bed she climbed into the high four-poster, disliking more than ever the heavy hangings which seemed to shut her in. She left one candle burning for company. She woke several times to the sound of shutters banging and the creak of the old woodwork in the house. A branch of ivy was tapping in the wind on one of the windows, and the sound of it became more insistent, penetrating at last to her drowsy consciousness. It was not the ivy. Someone was knocking at the door and an urgent voice said: "Will ye waken, ma'am? Will ye waken an'open the door?"

Maggy started up in bed, fear gripping her. "Coming!" she shouted. Her candle had burnt itself out. In the dim glow of the fire she fumbled for slippers and dressing-gown and ran to the door. Doolan stood in the passage, trousers and coat pulled roughly over his pyjamas. In the light of his candle his melancholy face was puckered like a child's. "Mr. Shelton?" asked Maggy quickly. The old man nodded. "You'd better be comin', ma'am," he said. "His breathin's terrible bad." So it had come at last, this thing she had dreaded so long. She forced herself to speak calmly as she went with him down the corridor. "What Happened?" "He had a bit of an accident before I had him undressed," Doolan told her. "The chair upset, the unhowly contraption! The master was a bit shaken, but he would not be havin' me stay with him the night. He rang for me this half hour back to prop him up with pillows, for the breath was like to choke him." "Have you sent for the doctor?" He paused and looked at her sadly in the flickering light. "He will have no doctor," he said. "We was expectin' this, ma'am."

Maggy ran ahead of him down the stairs, clinging to the bannisters to steady herself in the gloom. "Knock up one of the men and tell him to go to Mulligan's at once and ring up Dr. Moore and ask him to come out here immediately," she ordered. "Hurry I Oh, why isn't this benighted house on the telephone?" " 'Tis no use, ma'am, I'm thinkin'," said Doolan gently. "Nonsense!" Maggy stamped her foot. "Do you think I'm going to let him die? Hurry, hurry!" She felt her way in the dark along the passage to Garth's room, and as she opened the door she could hear his difficult breathing. His face was ashen against the pillows and the sweat stood out on his forehead. He smiled with difficulty when he saw her. "I didn't mean you to come," he said in a whisper. "Doolan insisted." "Of course Doolan insisted," she replied. "He should never have left you in the first place. Garth, didn't the specialist give you anything for - for this sort of emergency? " "Some heart tablets:" "Where are they?" "Right-hand drawer of the desk." She pulled the drawer open and found the bottle unopened.

"Do you mean to say you haven't taken any?" she demanded, filling a glass with water and shaking the tablets into the palm of her hand. He closed his eyes. "Why prolong it?" he said. Maggy stood over him and her eyes blazed. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" she announced. "How many? Quick!" "Two." He opened his eyes again and the ghost of a smile touched his blue lips. "How fierce you look, Maggy I It's no use fighting the inevitable." "You talk even more nonsense than Bridgit does," she said crossly, slipping a supporting arm under his head. "And if you think I'm going to give her the satisfaction in the morning of proving her old banshee right, you're wrong. Swallow them down." "What banshee?" he asked when he had obeyed her. "When should you have the next dose?" "In an hour; if necessary. What banshee?", "Don't talk," she ordered him. "Give the stuff a chance to work." She gave him some brandy, then sat by him in silence, wiping the sweat from his forehead at regular intervals, and listening intently for any improvement in his breathing. Doolan came back and said Murphy was on his way for the doctor. "You haven't sent for Johnny? " Garth murmured fretfully. "Of course I've sent for Johnny," she said firmly. "Doolan should have

done it hours ago, just as he should have insisted on you taking those tablets." She glared at Doolan from the bed. At the end of an hour his breathing seemed less distressed. She gave him two more tablets, and presently a little colour came bad to his face and his lips lost their blueness. He was definitely easier. "Trying to cheat death, Maggy?" he asked as she gave him the third lot of tablets. "I see no point in rushing to meet him," said Maggy hardily. There was a suspicion of a twinkle in his eyes as he looked up at her. "I don't know you in this avenging angel mood," he said. His voice was much stronger and he was breathing more naturally. "You're always surprising me." "Well, if you thought I was going to weep all over you and do nothing you were quite wrong," she retorted. "I was very angry." "Yes, I could see you were. Not at all the mouse of my dear sister's imagination." "I'm no mouse when roused," said Maggy severely. "And I'm roused now." This time his smile was almost a grin. She looked at the clock. It was nearly four. "Do you think you could make me some tea, Doolan?" she said. "And bring me a glass of milk, an egg and a whisk and some sherry." "Yes, ma'am." The old man glanced towards the bed, and his long upper lip trembled.

"Not this time, Doolan," Maggy said with a rather wavering smile. He looked at her with respect and then shuffled out of the room.

CHAPTER XI THERE was a long silence after he had gone. The unexpected anger which had supported Maggy through those few hours had gone, leaving her afraid. She watched Garth as he lay in a fitful sleep and felt suddenly very tired. Cheating death…That was all she had done, prolonging his life for a little while until the day when death would be cheated no longer. She thought he still slept, but presently he felt for her hand and held it. "I'd like you to know," he said without opening his eyes, "that I've left you Floyne." Her fingers felt stiff in his. "Left me Floyne! But - but I don't understand," she stammered. "You probably won't want to live here. You don't like it very much, do you? But everything I have comes to you. I wanted you to know." She felt dazed. "But-but why?" He smiled faintly and opened his eyes. "Isn't it usual when a man marries a wife?" "But I never was that sort of wife. You were most generous in your arrangements. I -" "You've been a good wife to me, Maggy," he said strangely. "I like to think when I am gone all this is yours."

Maggy felt her self-control fast slipping away. "Oh, don't! In a minute I shall be doing what you feared and crying all over you!" she said shakily. His fingers closed on hers. "Don't do that, I like you militant," he said humorously. She was glad that Doolan returned with a laden tray at that moment, and she could busy herself beating up an egg nog for Garth. "Get yourself a stiff whiskey and go to bed," she told Doolan. "There's no more to do now, and I'll let the doctor in, when he comes." Doolan's voice was humble. "If you plaze, ma'am, I'll be grateful for the whiskey, but I'll not be goin' to bed again this night. I'll wait in the kitchen." "No," said Maggy gently. "Sit here by the fire, and we'll both watch him." They sat through the rest of the night, the old man and the girl, watching and listening. The wind had dropped with the dawn hours, and at five Johnny came. It was Johnny's ring that roused the servants. Maggy had let him in when Norah's gaunt figure came hurrying down the stairs. Her curling pins in the light of her candle gave her the appearance of some respectable devil. "For the love of God, what is it?" she demanded in alarm. Norah remembered the days of the "trouble," when the ringing of a door-

bell at five in the morning meant destruction to the house and possibly death for the inmates. Maggy explained briefly, told the woman to dress and light a fire in the breakfast-room and rouse Mary Kate to prepare an early breakfast, then she took Johnny to Garth's room. Garth's voice from the bed sounded very tired, but it was strong. "Sorry about this, Johnny," he said. "I wouldn't have dragged you out of your bed, but Maggy gave me no choice, I'd no idea she could be such a tyrant!" Johnny bent over the bed examining him critically, then he straightened his back and smiled reassuringly at Maggy. "Go and rest by that fire you told Norah to light," he said kindly. "I'll come along later and have a cup of coffee with you. Doolan, fetch me some boiling water and some clean towels, please." "Is there nothing I can do?" Maggy asked a little wistfully. He shook his head. "There's nothing much for me to do either. You've already got him through the crisis. I'd like you to go away and relax now." ' Norah was on her knees in the breakfast-room, still in her dressinggown, coaxing a fire to life. Mary Kate and Bridgit were lighting lamps, and Mrs. Duffy came down the stairs, hastily dressed and demanding to know why she hadn't been roused before. "There was no need for all of you to come down," Maggy said wearily. "It's only just after five."

"An' wasn't it only last night I heard the banshee keenin'! I toult ye, ma'am." Bridgit, her eyes enormous in her scared face, stood like an avenging sybil, a lamp in her hands. "Put that lamp down, Bridgit Connolly, and get to the kitchen with your blather!'' Mrs. Duffy spoke sharply. "How is himself, ma'am?" Mary Kate's eyes rested kindly on the girl's tired face. She seemed the only one with real concern for Garth. "I think he'll be all right now, Mary Kate," Maggy replied. "Dr. Moore is with him. Will you all go now, please?" They filed out in varying stages of night attire. Only Mrs. Duffy remained. "I should have thought, ma'am, that it would have been only right for you to inform me at once of the master's condition," she said, and Maggy knew that she was offended again. Maggy said quietly, trying to be patient: - "There's nothing you could have done." "That's as maybe," replied the housekeeper, tossing her head. "But I have a position in this house, Mrs. Shelton, ma'am, and 'twas only right I should have been there to give an eye to the poor master." A little of her old anger returned to Maggy. She looked the woman straight in the eye and said: "It appears to me, Mrs. Duffy, that you consider your position a long way before your master's welfare, and it's not your place to tell me what I should or should not have done. Now will you please go. I'm very tired."

For a moment the woman looked taken aback, then an unpleasant smile curved her thin lips. "As you please - ma'am. You know best, I don't doubt," she said, and flounced out of the room. Maggy felt unutterably weary. She wondered what Johnny was doing in the sick room and what the day would bring. She thought of Garth's strange alteration to his will, and a great: desolation filled her as she realised with bitter clarity that time was running out. It was after six when Johnny came to her, and she sprang her feet and stood staring at him wordlessly. He thought she looked like a very tired child standing there in her long blue dressing-gown with the soft brown hair tumbling on to her shoulders. He went to her and took both her hands in his. "It's all right - this time, my dear," he told her gently, and the strain of those long hours told at last. Her face began to crumple, and she clung with sudden desperation to Johnny's shoulders. "I don't want him to die, Johnny. I don't want him to die," she sobbed. He held her in silence for a moment, and his face above her bowed head was sad and a little stern. "We don't know that he need - yet, Maggy," he said, then he held her and just let her cry. It would do her good and relieve some of the nervous strain she had been under. Her weeping ceased before long, and she drew away and said with childish dignity:

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. It's just that I'm rather tired." He looked at her with tenderness. "You've been a marvel from all I hear. Doolan has conceived the greatest respect for your handling of the situation. 'Put the fear of God into the master, an' her a wheeshy bit of a crayture!' he told me." She gave a watery smile. "I was angry because I was frightened," she confessed. "And then when I saw he wasn't trying to help himself I got mad, I wouldn't have dared to talk like that otherwise." He shook his head. "Oh jes, you would. I suspect you'd dare a great deal if necessity demanded, Maggy. You're one of the high-couraged ones." "Oh no," said Maggy in a tired voice. "That was Sabrina." "Sabrina?" Johnny frowned. "I know about Sabrina now. It make it easier to understand Garth's attitude." "Does it, Maggy? I've always found it made it more difficult; But we'll talk about these things another time. You're dead to the world, and when we've had some hot coffee I want you to go to bed and sleep till tea-time." "Oh, I couldn't do that," she said quickly, "I must go back to Garth." "You'll do as I tell you, young woman," he ordered with kindly severity. "I've given him an injection and he'll sleep as long as you do. You'll be no earthly use to Garth or anyone else in your present state. I shall be here, so there's nothing for you to worry about."

"Doolan ought to go to bed too. He's been up all night," she said. "He's the only one who really cares." Johnny gave her a little shake. "He's already gone. More sense and more respect for my orders than you." She smiled and pushed her hair wearily back from her face. "All right, I'll go," she said. "I feel safe when you're here. You wouldn't fool me, Johnny?" "No," he said gravely. "I wouldn't fool you, Maggy. The danger is over for the present."

She slept till four o'clock, the heavy dreamless sleep of mental exhaustion, and the light was already going from the loch when she went to the window: She drew the curtains again and lighted the candles. It seemed a long time since she had seen the daylight. Mrs. Duffy was adjusting the wick of a lamp in the hall when Maggy came down, and she immediately made for the staff door in offended silence. Johnny came out of the library and looked at Maggy critically. "That's better," he said approvingly. "Garth's awake now. You can go and see him." She stood beside Garth's bed and suddenly felt a little shy. He was hollow-eyed and looked exhausted, but the old detached indifference was there. "Well, you had things your way this time, Maggy," he said a little mockingly. "If it hadn't been for you, I would have been dead, so I suppose it's only polite to say thank you." ,

"You don't she hesitated a little, "- you don't resent it, do you?" His expression altered. "No, I don't resent it," he said gently. "I'm very touched for your concern." "And if ever - if ever you have another attack and I'm not there, you'll -" "I'll do my best, Maggy," he promised gravely, "Although there'll come a time when those tablets won't help." "I know." He looked at her oddly. "You're very brave, aren't you? Very brave and very honest. I ought to have sent you away long ago." "That wouldn't have helped either of us," she said simply. He felt his unshaven chin with distaste, and she knew that he disliked her to see him like this. "Perhaps not. But all the same, I'm asking too much of you." "No," said Maggy. "If you need me you can't ask top much of me." But later, back in the library with Johnny, she said with pain: "Will there be more attacks like this before —" He looked at her with compassion.

"It's very difficult to say," he replied. "Undoubtedly it was the shock of the chair overturning which precipitated this one. As a rule in this kind of case it's simply a matter of the moving clot reaching the heart and - finish. It might happen any time with no warning." She said again a little piteously like a child: "I don't want him to die, Johnny." He filled a pipe with care and lighted it, then looked across at her through the cloud of smoke with sudden shrewdness. "If things were different, and he was to get well," he said deliberately, "would you be prepared to accept the responsibilities of marriage with Garth?" "You mean if there was no Sabrina?" " We'll come to Sabrina later. You haven't answered my question." She hadn't ever thought of it, and the quick colour came into her face. "Yes," said Maggy simply, "I would." He puffed deliberately at his pipe for a moment, then he said quietly : "Why don't you persuade him to risk this operation?" Her eyes dilated. "But could he have it, even now?" she asked. He watched her thoughtfully. "Certainly. He'll either come through or snuff out, but there's a sporting chance that way and none at all the other."

Maggy felt her knees begin to shake. "He wouldn't do it for Sabrina," she said. "Why should he care because of me?" "I think he cares very much," Johnny told her gravely. "But he wants to die." "Nobody wants to die," he said impatiently. "At first, shock can atrophy all emotion so that the will to live can seem to be nonexistent, but shock wears off in time, I've thought for some while that Garth isn't so resigned as he would have us think. You've done so much for him, Maggy, do this one thing more. You're prepared for him to die anyway. At the worst you'll only be shortening the suffering for you both.'' ''I'm not afraid," she said hardily. "Anything's better than waiting. I never thought there was a chance now. But how - how can I persuade him?" "That's up to you." He smiled. "I've a notion you can tackle that job as well as you tackled the job last night. Think it over." "Yes," she said, "I will. But have you considered Garth's feelings, Johnny? If he was to get well I - I would still be his wife, and there's Sabrina." "Sabrina," said Johnny slowly, "was a fever - a sickness if you like. You've got to try and understand that, Maggy." "But if he loved her-" "I don't think he did love her. One doesn't love an elemental." "Rory said he was crazy about her."

"Crazy is right. A good many men have been crazy about Sabrina, but I should think precious few have loved her. She was greedy and demanding — like a little animal. I don't believe she ever touched the fundamental Garth. I don't believe anyone's done that until you came along." "Me?" He smiled. "I may even be wrong there. But I do believe you've taught him the meaning of affection, and that's a thing the Sheltons as a family have known very little about." She was .silent, thinking of Eunice and wondering why Johnny had married her - Eunice who had always wanted Floyne. "Johnny," she said in a puzzled voice, "did you know he had left me Floyne? He told me last night. Floyne, the Shelton jewels everything. I can't understand it." He smiled again, and looked suddenly happier. "No, I didn't know," he said with a twinkle. "Think it over, Maggy. Floyne is a big responsibility to tackle single-handed." In the days that followed Maggy thought many things over. She thought she had changed since she had first come to Floyne, and she looked back with wonder at the shy, immature girl in the shabby mackintosh who had stood beside Garth in the ugly little church that wet October day and married him with no thought to the future. Yes, she had changed. She had learnt that life has a habit of repaying one's actions in unexpected coin, and no human heart can say boldly: "Thus I am, thus I will remain and no man can alter me." Even Garth had changed. Who knew what thoughts and conclusions those strange

months had brought him? Had things worked out for him as he had planned so coldly on the terrace of the Imperial Hotel, or had he found, as she had, that the armour of detachment has its chinks? She remembered him saying at Christmas: "Nature, I suppose, is always incalculable. Emotions become fluid again, even when limbs can't." Had his thoughts returned again to Sabrina, cruelly reminded of that other Christmas when Floyne had held warmth and love and laughter? Yet at Christmas he had changed his will. - He told her that one evening as she sat in. his room after dinner. She no longer felt diffident of her reception. He seemed glad to have her with him, and while he was still in bed she had formed a habit of running in and out with odd pieces of news. Sometimes she would play for him, leaving the doors open so that he could hear the notes of the piano, a little muffled, across the hall between. But more often she wpuld sit by his fire, answering his idle questions and occasionally asking some of her own. He had lost much of his old remoteness, propped up in bed, and Maggy became aware that he possessed a dry humour . which in other days must have made him a good companion. "Tell me about your childhood," she said once. "I know so little about you, and Floyne is a strange house. There are no photographs nothing to tell you about the people who have lived here." "That's probably my youthful revolt to clutter," he told her with a smile. "My mother came of a generation who littered the rooms with photographs — mostly of relations and friends I'd never even seen. After my parents died I made a clean sweep of the lot. We were never a very united family." She glanced round the room.

"But your own interests," she said softly. "Your friends, your horses—all the usual indications of one's own personal tastes." His face hardened. "I have no friends," he said coldly. "And such tastes as I had no longer matter." She looked at him with the clear untroubled gaze which he had come to know meant that she couldn't focus very easily. It gave her a helpless, rather childish aspect which touched him. "I think that's wrong," she said gently. "If you have no friends it's because you've never needed any, and tastes — what one is oneself always matter." He smiled reluctantly. "I expect you're right, Maggy, you usually are. A clean sweep of my own personal reminders is probably merely a form of escape." "I can understand that," she said quickly, "though I still think you're wrong. There's comfort in the little things. They don't always hurt. You know, I used to think you really were indifferent. I found it awfully hard to understand. It seemed so - so unnatural." "I think at the time I first met you, I was," he said and added shrewdly: "Even you with your childish ignorance of life would hardly have married me if I hadn't been." She was silent, and he said prosaically: "I don't know if I've really done you a good turn by altering my will." She looked up, startled.

"When did you alter it?" she asked. "At Christmas." She wanted to ask him why he had changed his plans, but something in his expression stopped her. "Why did you say that you aren't sure if you had done me a good turn?" she asked instead. His eyes were faintly mocking. "Because you're very young and, I fear, impressionable," he answered. "Later on, there'll be plenty of prospective suitors. You'll be a rich woman, you know." "Oh!" Maggy sprang to her feet. "How can you talk like that? It's beastly and - and -" He raised his thick eyebrows. "But, my dear child, we must face facts. I know the world very much better than you do and I assure you that human desire, is very easily influenced by human greed." "It isn't that," she retorted hotly. "It's - it's talking about the possibility of - of other men, when you -" She broke off, very near tears, and he said a little wearily: "Really, Maggy, I thought we'd got beyond such delicate avoidances. I'm not trying to embarrass your sensibilities. I'm only thinking of your future." v- "If you were really thinking of my future," she said before she could stop herself, "You'd take a chance on getting cured instead of sitting down quietly resigned."

There was a painful silence. His eyes narrowed suddenly, and he said very coldly, "Are you trying to suggest that I should risk an operation?" The room was very quiet. The lamp beside Garth's bed made a small, persistent humming noise which sounded unnaturally loud. Maggy stood, feeling awkward and frightened, her anger giving place to a quiet misery. Not thus had she meant to tackle Garth about the operation. It was a subject which needed tact and delicacy, and here she had blurted it out in a childish rage. But she faced him bravely and said: ' "Yes, I am - only I hadn't meant to put it quite like that." He seemed to lie very still in the bed. "Whatever way you meant to put it, Maggy, it's something We won't discuss, if you don't mind," he said. Something of her old courage returned to Maggy. The time was past when he could escape her by these methods. "But I do mind," she said quickly. "I think you owe it to me as much as to yourself to discuss this thing." He moved his head restlessly on the pillow. "Very well," he replied, still in that cold voice. "If we must discuss it, we must. But you know quite well I made my decision six months ago and I see no reason why I should alter it now." "What was your reason in the first place?" Maggy demanded, and when he didn't answer, she went on: "Sabrina. Oh, I know about Sabrina. I'm not going to talk about her. You thought nothing

mattered - there was no incentive to take a chance. And later you knew you wouldn't live and you were glad. But now it's different. Everyone has something to live for. You're shirking your responsibilities." He was silent for so long that she had time to be astonished at her own temerity in mentioning Sabrina, but when he spoke the coldness had gone from his voice and he sounded amused. "You certainly have a most disconcerting directness at times, Maggy," he said. "Are you telling me I'm a coward?" She blinked a little nervously. "Yes, I suppose I am," she said with surprise. "Oh, not a physical coward — I know you're not that. But I don't think you've ever faced up to your chances since the accident. You haven't wanted to." He held out a hand. "Come here." She went across and sat on the edge of his bed. "All this fine talk about my responsibilities and moral courage I Have you thought what it would mean for you if by any chance I cured?" She slipped a hand into his and was aware of the instant pressure of his fingers. "Yes," she said simply. "I'm afraid I was thinking mosdy of myself. You see - I don't want you to die, Garth." "If I were to live," he said slowly, "I would have cheated you, Maggy. Your time is yet to come. You need youth and fun. That was in the bargain, wasn't it?"

"You don't know anything about me if you can think that," she said, and suddenly wanted to cry. "I want you to be cured more than anything in the world. If - later on - you didn't want me here, I could go away." "Oh, my dear child!" His voice was suddenly harsh. "It's you I'm thinking of. I said I would have cheated you because if I lived I shouldn't want you to go away." His eyes were suddenly tormented. "I should expect a marriage as marriage is meant to be between a man and a woman. We don't believe much in divorce in Ireland, and for all the chilly automaton I've allowed you to think I am, I'm not made of stone. I'm sorry, Maggy, the thing's unthinkable." "It's unthinkable that you should refuse!" she cried. "There are other people you matter to as well. Johnny, Doolan, Eunice in her queer way. And me. You matter terribly to me, Garth," she finished in a small voice, and all at once she was crying. "Don't," he said, and touched her cheek with his fingers. "I should have sent you away, my child." She tried to smile through her tears. "I promised you I would never embarrass you if I stayed," she said. "I'll go to bed now." He did an unexpected thing. He pulled her down into his arms and kissed her as a lover might. She leant her head against his shoulder and felt the lean hard line of his jaw against her wet cheek. "Garth -" Her arm tightened round his neck. "For my sake-" He moved his head sharply, and the gaze he turned on her was one of such passionate intensity that for a moment she was startled.

"Go to bed, Maggy, you're tired out," he said harshly. "And, Maggy — we won't talk of this again - understand?" She stood up, and rubbed her wet lashes with a despondent gesture. "Yes, I understand. Good-night, Garth." "Good-night, Maggy," he said, but he watched her gravely as she turned the lamp down and left him there in the firelight. In a few days Garth was out of bed and back in his wheelchair. He would sit most afternoons in the weak February sunshine in the lee of the house, staring out across the loch, and Maggy wondered if he was thinking of Sabrina who used to row across the water in Miss O'Malley's old dinghy. "I've failed," Maggy said unhappily to Johnny on his final professional visit. "I put it all badly and he won't consider it." "I'll talk to him," Johnny said, but she never knew what passed between the two men. "Garth was always an obstinate cuss," Johnny told her. "These cold, repressed people are the devil to talk sense into." "And yet," said Maggy, looking at the tender evening sky which held all the promise of things to come, "I don't believe that he's really indifferent. I believe he wants to live." Johnny stared thoughtfully over her head. " "I don't think he's indifferent," he said quietly. "I think he's got another bee in his .bonnet now. I think he feels that by living he may muck up your life, Maggy." She looked at him with uncomprehending distress.

"But I've tried to tell him," she said. "I don't seem able to make him understand." "Well, I don't know," Johnny said. "You may have got further than you think. I believe for a long time the thought of death has caused a struggle we have known nothing about. He's a brave man, Maggy." She thought that after her conversation with Johnny, Garth seemed to withdraw himself from her again. It was as if by trespassing on forbidden ground she had driven him back into his old remoteness, and watching him during those silent evenings when he read or lay back with closed eyes, she wondered how long that quite aloof manner had hidden rebellion against his wrecked life. She longed to break down his reserve, but the right words would not come. As in the early days it seemed an impertinence to trespass. It was only, she thought with surprise, when she was angry that she could forget herself and say the things that were in her heart. She had avoided the Shamus Stone since she had learnt that Garth's accident had happened there, but one morning she felt impelled to visit it again. The lovely place drew her in spite of herself. She liked to stand on the topmost stone and watch the breakers out at sea. She stood there now, listening to the screaming gulls and thinking of Garth alone with his thoughts as she was with hers. A horse and rider came cantering slowly across the moor, and as they drew nearer, Maggy saw it was Miss O'Malley in her old-fashioned coat and shabby breeches. She had seen her before exercising her young stock on this lonely bit of moor. "Hullo!" Kate O'Malley called when she was within hailing distance. "How is your husband?" Maggy climbed down from the rocks and went to meet her.

"He's better, thank you," she said. "He had a bad attack about a fortnight ago." "Yes, I'd heard. Doolan told my man, Reilly, it was thanks to you he'd pulled through." The young horse was sidling round Maggy, fluttering his nostrils and blowing apprehensively. "Why have you never been over to see me?" Miss O'Malley demanded in her abrupt fashion. "Steady, my love. Steady, my darling! She won't hurt you." Maggy was silent, not knowing what to say. She had never acquired the Irish habit of dropping in uninvited on comparative strangers. "Is it Rory?" "Rory!" Maggy was startled into speech. Miss O'Malley swung herself to the ground and, looping the reins over her arm, stood, soothing her nervous horse. "I knew you and he were meeting. I wondered if Rory was up to his old tricks. It's a lonely life for a young girl shut up at Floyne with a crippled man." "Oh!" Maggy felt the colour sting her cheeks. Did the whole countryside suspect those innocent trysts? Did Garth himself? Kate O'Malley looked at her shrewdly. "No, I see I was wrong. I apologise," she said. "But knowing my graceless nephew, I wondered. He's fond of you, you know." "He's always been my very good friend," said Maggy gravely. Miss O'Malley grinned suddenly.

"Then it's the first time any attractive woman's been able to say that of him," she said. "Perhaps he's fonder than I suspected. Poor Rory. He's not used to honest women," The horse now stood still under her caressing hand, stretching out his lovely neck now and again to snatch at the heather. This woman was almost a stranger, yet Maggy could ask: "Was Sabrina honest?" Kate O'Malley's shrewd eyes were thoughtful.' "What do you know about that affair? " she asked. "Only that she was very lovely, that Garth was going to marry her, that the accident put an end to all his hopes." "The accident was not entirely responsible for that," the older woman said shortly. "Maggy, I've never understood this marriage of Garth's. I don't know you, but I like you. I liked you from the moment I saw: you getting slightly tipsy in Black's Hotel. I'm going to tell you a story."

CHAPTER XII "To understand everything, I must go back a bit," Kate O'Malley said, and they both moved with unspoken agreement into, the lee of the Shamus Stone. They stood, side by side, leaning against the rock, and the young horse, unsuspicious of a stranger any longer, quietly cropped the sparse, salt-tainted grass. "Rory and Sabrina are cousins, you know. Rory has always made his home with me, and Sabrina used to come for long visits. They grew up together, and later, when Sabrina had finished her education she came back here to help me with the horses. She was a magnificent horsewoman and a great help with the young stock. But she was restless. She would never stay long, and used to go gallivanting off abroad, dear knows how, for she had no money of her own. She was beautiful, and had amazing vitality, and men could no more resist her than a horse can oats. She and Rory were lovers long before she knew Garth." Miss O'Malley paused and watched a gull wheeling overhead. "It meant very little," she went on prosaically. "I think Sabrina has always had lovers. She can't help her nature which is to crave passion, excitement, change. She's not vicious, or even heartless, but like a badly broken filly, knows no discipline. No one man could possibly satisfy her - certainly not Garth who would never understand such a nature as hers. And so we come to Garth." She paused again and Maggy waited, not interrupting at any moment, her eyes fixed on the distant blue of the sea. "Garth had always led his own solitary life at Floyne, troubling himself very little about neighbours, so they seldom met. But he saw her ride once at some show or other, and asked her if she would care to exhibit his horses for him. After that, she used to go up to Floyne a

great deal and ride his horses and she won him a good few cups in the ring. Whether it was the glamour of Floyne and the Shelton jewels, or whether it was the fact, that Garth himself was different, and had little use for women, I don't know. Possibly all three. But she made a dead set at him and if Sabrina troubled herself sufficiently to go out after a man- she could be pretty devastating. "At first she had little success. Garth admired her skill with horses, and he would scarcely have been human if he had been entirely indifferent to her interest, but for a long time, I think he was just amused. Certainly he gave her no encouragement, and that only made her all the more determined to get him, and in the end she did. When a man as cold and reserved as Garth Shelton finally gives in he's apt to do it thoroughly. He was infatuated with her, but I think he didn't love her. One doesn't love the Sabrinas of this world. She told me she was tired of wandering; she wanted to settle down. Settle down! Sabrina will never settle down long after she's "an old woman and all her charm is gone. I told her so, but she only laughed. She was always very sincere in her dealings of the moment. Rory came home for their engagement party at Christmas, and by the New Year she had revived that old affair, probably because she didn't understand Garth's conventional approach to a love affair. They used to meet up here at the Shamus Stone, and I sometimes warned her that she was playing a dangerous game. It meant nothing to her, and very little to Rory, but if Garth ever found out I knew it would be the finish of them both. Already she was tiring. It was a marriage which could only have spelt disaster, and I think she knew it. He found them one day by the Shamus Stone - probably just where We're standing now in the lee of the rocks. I think Mrs. Duffy had made mischief. She used to spy on them, I know. Anyway he found them. Rory said afterwards that they never knew how long he had been watching them before a movement from his horse startled them. They sprang apart then and Sabrina cried out, frightening the young horse, which reared and threw him

against the rock. I suppose in a way you could say Sabrina was directly responsible for the accident. Anyhow, she wrecked Garth's life, and later, when he released her from her engagement, though she made the gesture of being willing to go through with it, she knew he had finished with her." At last Maggy spoke. "Why have you told me all this?" she asked. "Because," said Kate O'Malley, "I knew Garth wouldn't, and because I'm the only person who knows the truth." But Maggy wondered. Country people knew these things. Old Casey had known when he had said so long ago to Maggy; "It should niver have happened." Mrs. Dufly had guessed at least part of the story and had got rid of Sabrina as she had tried to get rid of Maggy in the bog of Cluny. "And what is the truth?" she said slowly. "That she Wrecked his life so completely that he had no wish to live? That even now —" Miss O'Malley glanced at her curiously. "I know nothing about your relations with your husband, but don't let Sabrina come between you," she said unemotionally. "The feeling he had for her was more of a fever than anything else. And when a fever leaves you it takes with it all your will power, all your emotions for a time. That's why I told you this story, my dear. Others, who knew Sabrina, might have given you the wrong impression." "Thank you," said Maggy, and added wistfully: "If only I'd known earlier."

But would it have made any difference had she known f Could she have done anything towards the building up of that lost faith in Garth? Long after Kate O'Malley had left her, she sat crouched in the heather, turning over that tragic little history in her mind. So many things became clear. His silence on all matters immediately preceding his accident, his indifference at the time for anything further life might do to him, the shutting away of himself into a world where pain couldn't touch him again. Yet, that night when he had kissed her for the first time, she had been aware for a moment of conflict and torment, as if, too late, he understood that life Mid Sabrina had cheated him.... It was late when she got back to the house. Mrs. Duffy met her in the hall and informed her that Garth had already lunched. Maggy thought she looked strange, and for the first time she wondered if the woman was quite normal. Her black eyes held an odd glitter as she said: "I told the master you would be visiting the Shamus Stems. He wouldn't be likin' that, of course. The Shamus Stone has a strange power. Wasn't it there the master was destroyed, no Iras? I'm surprised at your likin' for it, Mrs. Shelton, ma'am, indeed an' I am." Maggy tried to pass. In the light of her recent knowledge, the housekeeper's innuendoes were loathesomely plain. "I'm not interested in your opinions, Mrs. Duffy," she said coldly. "Where I choose to go is no concern of yours." "Is it not, then!" The woman's voice rose. "Let me be tellin' you that whatever goes on at Floyne is my concern. You'll never be mistress

of this house, my poor young lady. 'Twill go back to the Sheltons where it belongs, an' the jewels with it. There's another who thought to wear the Shelton sapphires, but they art not for strangers. Miss Eunice an' her children an' her children's children, for you will have none of your own -" "Mrs. Duffy!" Garth's voice rang across the hall with an inflection Maggy had never heard before. He had wheeled his chair to the open library door, and there was a look on his face which frightened Maggy. "Pack your trunks," he said with cold ferocity. "Pack your trunks and be out of this house before night." Mrs. Duffy stared at him and her white face became slowly pinched and old. "Leave Floyne?" she whispered. "Mr. Shelton, sir, you wouldn't -I didn't mean annything...." "I don't care what you meant," he replied. "You're a mischief-maker, Duffy, and more than that you're disloyal and dangerous. I've nothing more to say. Come, Maggy. I'm only sorry that I've asked you to put up with such treatment for so long. You should have told me." Mrs. Duffy still stood staring at him. "Floyne's been me home this fifteen years. Where will I go?" ' she said, sounding dazed. "That's your affair," he said, and his face was hard as granite. "I will naturally see that your long service is recognised, but where you will go, I neither know nor care. But you will be out of here by tonight. That's final."

He turned his chair abruptly and Maggy followed him into the library feeling considerably shaken by the events of the day.

But she dressed for dinner that night with a lighter heart. With Mrs. Duffy's going a load seemed lifted from the house, for something of Sabrina went with her. She had preserved a strained silence to the end. Bridgit told Maggy in awe-struck tones: "Sure, it was as if a spell was on her and she afraid to open her lips. An' the wildness in her two eyes. 'Twas as if the madness was on her." For a moment, Maggy was uneasy. The woman hardly seemed sane. "Where will she go, Bridgit?" she asked. "She has friends in Galway. Murphy is drivin' her in," Bridgit replied, and added with the callous carelessness of youth: "She'll not want with the master's generosity. She's ould, that wan, but she's tough as an' ould biddy, bad cess to her!" But Maggy was still faintly troubled. Bridgit fastened her frock for her, and she went back to the dressingtable and unlocked a drawer. Garth had asked her to wear the sapphires tonight, and she opened the long flat case which held the necklace, and sat quite still for a moment, staring into it. The case was empty. Maggy opened each case with shaking fingers, but they were all empty. "Bridgit, they've gone!" she exclaimed. The two girls stared at each other for a horrified moment, then Bridgit sank down on the edge of the bed with a small shriek.

"Och! The fairies have charmed the jools away!" she wailed. "The leprechaun has thim tuk for his crock of gowld!" "Nonsense!" said Maggy sharply. "It's no leprechaun but a common thief." It was criminal, of course, not to have put the sapphires back in the safe. Any key would open that old-fashioned lock; Keys! A bunch of keys jangling against a black alpaca dress! "Stop keening, Bridgit, and tell me if Mrs. Duffy has left yet," she said quickly. "The eyar is beyant, but the ould devil won't move,". Bridgit said. Maggy pushed her towards the door. "Quick. Find Doolan and tell him to come to me at once in the breakfast-room," she said. "And don't say a word of this to anyone, Bridgit. I don't want Mr. Shelton to be worried." She ran down the stairs wondering how best she might deal with this situation without calling on Garth's authority. Mrs. Duffy had talked very wildly about the sapphires earlier in the day. It was entirely typical that she should have taken them as a last vindictive-gesture. Doolan came, looking anxious, and when Maggy hastily explained, suggested at once that Garth should be fetched. "No," said Maggy stubbornly. "If there's any kind of scene it may upset him and bring on another attack. I'm going to get the jewels back myself, but I want you to come with me." She followed him down the lamp-lit passages to the housekeeper's room and threw open the door. Mrs. Duffy was sitting motionless by a dead fire with that dazed expression still on her face. She wore her

outdoor clothes and a pair of black kid gloves, but she made no attempt to rise when Maggy came in. "Mrs. Duffy," Maggy said quietly, "will you please give me the sapphires?" The woman turned her fixed gaze in Maggy's direction. "What would I be doin' with the Shelton sapphires?" she asked in a dull voice. Maggy looked at her steadily. "I know you have them," she said. "Give them to me, plea®. I don't want to have to call the police." "The police, is it?" The housekeeper's dazed expression changed to one of outraged cunning, and her voice was shrill: "The police will never set foot in Floyne." "Ah, come on, now! Give the jools to the mistress," coaxed -Doolan. "Is it lost, they are, then?" Mrs. Duffy assumed an air_of innocence.. "No," said Maggy. "They're stolen." Mrs. Duffy turned on her. "You'll be callin' me a thief, now J" she cried, and her Mack eyes glittered. "You had me driven from Casde Floyne which was me home, an' if the jools go with me, 'tis only to their rightful place. You'll not be feelin' the Shelton sapphires round your white neck again, me line girl, an' you with no right to them at all." Maggy turned to Doolan.

"Fetch Mary Kate and Norah, and explain what's happened," she said. He left the room; looking a little dubiously over his shoulder, but Mrs. Duffy spoke no further word until he returned with the two women. "Mary Kate," Maggy said apologetically, "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to search Mrs. Duffy. Start on her handbag." Mary Kate looked uncomfortable, and Mrs. Duffy said-in an ominous voice : "Lay one finger on me, Mary Kate Doyle, an' I'll box your ears." "I wouldn't like to be doin' that same, ma'am," the cook said in a flustered voice. Mrs. Duffy might have been given notice, but she was still the housekeeper of Floyne whose word was law. But the gaunt, elderly Norah, perhaps with the assurance in the background of a nephew in the Civil Guard, had no such scruples. "Hould her, Pat Doolan," she remarked tersely, and made a snatch at Mrs. Duffy's handbag. The woman gave a scream of rage and began to fight Doolan, who was holding her down in her chair. Maggy had an impression of excited faces outside the open door. Bridgit,Tier fine eyes round with curiosity, Theresa peering, open-mouthed over her shoulder, while Murphy, hastening to the scene, was already taking off his coat, shouting: "Is it a fight?" Maggy took the bag from Norah and quickly searched through.it. The jewels were all there tied up' in a handkerchief, and she gave a sigh of relief. She was afraid Mrs. Duffy would be wearing them."

"Let her go," she said to Doolan. "Now, Mrs. Duffy, will you…" But she was unprepared for the woman's sudden spring. As Doolan loosened his grip, she flung herself at Maggy, tearing at her bare arms, trying to snatch the necklace from her. Her strength was surprising. Doolan and Murphy dragged her off and held her struggling while she screamed at Maggy: : "Give me the jools!" she shouted. "They belong to Shelton women. You and one other have thought to wear them, but you never will. 'Tis Miss Eunice should be here, mistress of Floyne an' wearing the jools. Miss Eunice is the eldest and not a poor crippled crayture like -" She broke off and her eyes resumed their dazed expression as she stared at the door. Maggy turned and saw Garth's wheelchair on the threshold. "She took the sapphires," she said weakly. "I know. Bridgit fetched me." "I was afraid she'd be doin' ye a mischief, ma'am," said Bridgit apologetically. Mrs. Duffy had become quiet and sullen. "I was takin' them to Miss Eunice," she said over and over again. "Go with Murphy, now, Duffy," Garth said quietly. "The ear's waiting. Doolan, drive in with them and get Dr. Moore. He'll take care of her." Mrs. Duffy marched out between the two men without another word, and Bridgit ran to the back door to watch. "The cyar's started, sir," she called after a few minutes. "Good," said Garth. "Come and have some sherry, Maggy. You must need it."

Maggy felt she did need it. The whole day had been altogether too eventful. "Why didn't you call me?" Garth asked gravely as he poured out the sherry. "I didn't want to upset you," she said. "I thought I could manage. Garth, do you think she's mad? " He frowned. "She's certainly headed for a nervous breakdown. She's always had a kink about Floyne and the female line of the Sheltons," he said, and added harshly: "It was criminal of me to have kept her on. She might have done you some harm. I should have got rid of her after that bog episode - Johnny warned me - only I couldn't bring myself to believe that that had been deliberate. Will you forgive me, Maggy? I can't forgive myself." "Oh, please - how could you know?" said Maggy quickly. "But I'm glad she's gone." The next morning Maggy consulted Norah who seemed to approve of her shy proposal that she should take over the running of Floyne herself. "Sure, an' a housekeeper's onnecessary entirely," she agreed cheerfully. "An' 'twill give ye somethin' to do these long days." Maggy spent a pleasant morning learning where the linen and other household things were kept, encouraged by Norah and Mary Kate who, now that Mrs. Duffy had gone, were disposed to be garrulous, and that evening she said to Garth: "Don't let's have another housekeeper. I'd like to try and run the house myself." ' '

He was turning the leaves of an anthology of verse, searching for something, but he looked up as she spoke. "Do you think you could?" "Norah will help me. She's a great stand-by. Perhaps — then — I'd get to know everyone better." "Very well. We'll try it and see." He returned to his anthology and presently he seemed to find what he was looking for, and she watched his face as he read. Something in his expression made her ask impulsively what he was reading: "'They stole little Bridgit For seven years long, And when she came down again Her friends were all gone,'" he quoted with a curious look. "I've been looking for that for a long time, That Christmas card of Rory's always puzzled me;" He spoke Rory's name quite naturally and with none of that old unexplained distaste. "Oh!" said Maggy, and looked surprised. "He thought I was like that. It was rather silly, really." "Not so silly then, perhaps. Do you still hate Ireland. Maggy?" "No," she said. "It's strange and wild, and I still don't under- staid the people, but I don't hate it. I think I might even come to love it."

He seemed about to reply to that, then changed his mind and -asked instead if she would drive into Galway, in the morning and do some errands for him. "And I want you to choose a wireless set," he said unexpectedly. "It will help to pass the time for you here, and there's often good music to listen to." "Thank you, I'll like that," she said. She had often wondered why he had no wireless himself. She took the book from him and idly turned its pages. Oirthe fly-leaf his name was written in his own neat hand. G. M. Shelton, "What does the M stand for? I've often wondered," she said. "Michael." "Michael. That's nicer than Garth. Garth has a cold, severe sound. The dictionary says a garth is an open space between two cloisters. I used to think you were rather like that." "Did you, Maggy?" he said, but she watched his eyes immediately become guarded and knew that for some reason or other he was afraid of personalities. She gave him back the book, and he read for a little while then lay back in his chair without speaking. She watched his still face, the lamplight falling across it lending it a strange mobility, and she was conscious all at once that he was under some great strain. Feeling that in watching him she was intruding on something she was not meant to see, she reached for a book, and at her movement he immediately opened his eyes. "It's a long evening, isn't it, Maggy?" he said impatiently, and she knew that for some reason he wanted to be alone.

She put down her book, unopened, and glanced at the clock. "It's nearly ten o'clock," she said. "Yes. Well, I think I'll go to bed." She was used to his sudden exits and entrances, but she looked puzzled as he began to turn his chair. "We're a queer race, aren't we?" he said, catching the puzzled look. She ran across the room to open the door for him. "Someone once told me that you had to believe in fairies to Understand the Irish," she said with a laugh. "Do you agree?" "Perhaps." He gave her a strange look. "You shouldn't find that difficult. You have a very touching innocence, my dear." "Have I? It sounds awful!" He smiled, gave her a long look, and seemed about to add something more, then held out his hand. His fingers felt hot and dry as they pressed hers, and as always, she was surprised by the strength in them. "Good-night, Maggy," he said quietly, and turned his chair into the hall with a deft, quick movement. He wasn't out of his room when Murphy came round with the car in the morning, and Maggy set off with a holiday feeling. It would be market day in Galway and she enjoyed the hustle and bargaining, and it was nice of Garth to have thought of a wireless. She was some time choosing a set, and driving back over the bumpy roads behind the silent Murphy, she was afraid she would be late for

lunch. A thin drizzle began to fall as they turned in at the gates of Floyne, and she told herself with satisfaction that it would probably be a wet afternoon and she could listen to her new wireless. Johnny's car stood in front of the house, and Maggy felt a stab of fear. Johnny bad given up his professional visits nearly a fortnight ago. She flung herself out of the car almost before it had stopped and ran into the porch, her heart pounding. Johnny met her in the hall. "Garth!" she said. "Has something happened?" He took her hands in a reassuring grip. "Garth's all right," he said quickly. "Come into the library for a minute, I want to talk to you." She followed him into the room, puzzled and still not altogether reassured by his manner, and watched him pour out two glasses of sherry. "Is he coming in to lunch?" she asked. "I've got the new wireless." Johnny handed her a glass and took a sip at his own. "He's not here," he said then. Fear leapt up again in her eyes, and she spilt some of her sherry.. "What do you mean, he's not here?" she demanded. "Johnny, you're keeping something from me." . He looked across at her and smiled. "He's gone to a nursing home in Duhlin," he said quietly. "An ambulance came and fetched him this morning."

She went white. "Do - do you mean he's going to have the operation?" The rain had come on in earnest. It sounded very loud against the window panes. "Nine o'clock tomorrow morning. So you see, Maggy,' he did consider your suggestion after all." Her knees began to feel a little weak and she sat down, and drank her sherry off at a gulp. "Did you know about this?" she asked helplessly. "I made the arrangements." "But he never told me. He never said good-bye," she said a little piteously. "He thought it was best this way," said Johnny gently. Yes, Maggy thought, that was like Garth, too. No fuss, no farewells. Just "Good-night, Maggy," like any other night in their lives. "I may never see him again," she said. Johnny set down his glass and put a kindly hand on her shoulder. "You mustn't think that," he said deliberately. "Face the risk as he has had to face it, then hope - and pray if it helps you. This is your testing time, Maggy. You must be strong, and remember, whatever the outcome, it's the best way for him." She looked up at him and smiled with difficulty.

"Yes, I'll remember that," she said. "If - if the operation is successful, Johnny, will it be complete?" "If all goes well, there's no reason why he shouldn't lead a perfectly normal life eventually," he told her gravely. "How long?" "It's impossible to say. He's got to be taught how to walk again, remember, but in a few months - less if he responds quickly to treatment. Maggy -" he paused, "- I want you to realise that, if he comes through, things won't be easy. At first there'll be a certain amount of pain - probably cramp - bad days when he'll be irritable and despondent when progress seems; slow. You'll have to be patient and infinitely tactful. He won't like witnesses to his efforts to move in the early days." "I don't think," said Maggy, "I would embarrass him. I've helped him before. You see he's used to me, now - like Doolan — or his chair." He looked at her curiously. "My dear, when a man loves without being able to make love, he's apt to be sensitive of his blunderings," he said gently. She gazed back at him, her eyes dark with questioning, and the colour flooded her cheeks. He smiled and said, as Rory had: "You don't know very much about love, do you, Maggy?" "No." He sighed.

"Neither do most of us, if it Comes to that." "Johnny -" She searched his face with gentle insistence. "What are his chances - really?" He met her eyes steadily. "You want an honest answer, Maggy?" He hesitated. "Six to four against. That attack weakened him, you know. His chances were better six months ago. But at least he owes the will to live to you." "I'll remember that, too," she said simply.

The waiting seemed endless. In spirit, Maggy wandered that unknown nursing home in Dublin tip-toeing along the silent, wellscrubbed corridors, into the bare, impersonal rooms with all their panoply of the sick, and she wondered what were Garth's thoughts as he lay in his narrow hospital bed; Was he afraid as she herself was afraid - Garth, who had been content for so long to die in peace at Floyne. She thought that for him the hardest step had probably been to submit himself to other hands, to relinquish his authority for his own actions and become an instrument for pain. That accomplished, he would not be afraid; death was a little nearer, that was all. Maggy knew little of the passionate desire for life, born perhaps too late, and Johnny didn't enlighten her, but he thought it possible that Garth was suffering that night more mental pain than he had ever been called upon to endure before. Johnny had suggested taking Maggy back to Galway with him for the night, but she had refused. She was used to the solitude of Floyne now. The waiting would be easier to bear here rather than in Eunice's unfriendly household. Johnny didn't press her. There was quality in Maggy. She would stand strain best alone.

The rain stopped about three o'clock, and a dense sea-fog crept over the moor, muffling all sound, and pressing round the house with clammy fingers. All that afternoon Maggy returned to her cataloguing; working with patient thoroughness, and in the evening she sat in the cold drawing-room and practised; scales, arpeggios, old studies she had learnt as a child. There was something anonymous and impersonal about scales which shut out thought, but upstairs in her sombre bedroom, she knew she couldn't escape. "Hope — and pray if it helps you," Johnny had said. In a household where prayer had been as natural as three meals a day, Maggy had never had any difficulty in praying, but when, tonight, she knelt up in her vast bed, as she had knelt as a child in her cot, years ago, she could think of no words to say. Lying there in the darkness, she tried to recall every expression, every inflection of Garth's voice as he bade her good-night for the last time. He had given her a long, searching look, as if he wished to memorise her face, and there had been a moment when he had seemed about to say something - had he meant to tell her then? But his voice as he wished her good-night had been .just as usual. Goodnight, Maggy like any other night of their lives. ... The sedative Johnny had left for her began to take effect.... There was no wind; only the fog pressing silently round the house. Bridgit's banshee could not keen tonight.... She awoke from dark nebulous dreams to find Bridgit drawing the curtains. "What's the time?" she asked, starting up in bed. The girl looked at her with curiosity.

"Near ten o'clock. I let ye be, ma'am, for ye was sleepin' like a little child." Ten o'clock! Then it was all over. Even now Garth might "Why did you let me sleep?" she asked with pain. Bridgit's face expressed a rough gentleness. "Sure, an' what good would it do the poor master if I'd wakened ye?" she retorted. "Stop grievin' now. 'Tis our Blessed Lady will bring him back to ye walkin' on his two legs." Maggy was grateful for such faith. For Bridgit, Our Lady, the saints and the Little People were all mixed up together, and they were all equally powerful. She hurried through her dressing and went downstairs. She was thankful for Mrs. Duffy's absence in the house and she answered Norah's kindly enquiries as best she might, wishing she could talk to Doolan, who understood. But Doolan had gone with Garth to Dublin, and was even now perhaps sitting in one of those falsely bright: waiting rooms in the nursing home waiting for news. Johnny had told her it would be some time before they could hear. He was driving out himself as soon as he had word from the nursing home. That couldn't be for a long time yet, unless -r Maggy grew rigid. If the news was bad, they might know already. Was that why Johnny had insisted on coming himself rather than send a message through Mulligan? Did he Suspect -? Six to four against, he had said. Six to four against.... Maggy left the rest of her breakfast untouched, and fetching a coat, went out of the house. The fog had cleared away, leaving a morning of brittle beauty. The earth smelt sweet and fresh after the rain, and the sky was a delicate

duck's-egg blue, meeting the dark horizon of the moor. It was going to be a fine day. Maggy found herself in the stable yard without quite know- ing how she got there. There was new moss growing between the cobbles, and out of the brilliant green, tiny, star-like flowers thrust their fragile heads: The cobbles were worn smooth and shiny by the hoofs of many horses. Casey was there, swilling out a loose-box that was already spotless, and for a long time Maggy watched him at his work, listening to the cool scrape of bristles on wet stone and the contented hissing which came from Casey's old, puckered lips. He was aware of her, but without rudeness, he took no notice of her. "Casey," she said suddenly, "tell me about the horses. Their names their colours - everything." She sat on the old stone mounting-block and fixed her eyes with great intentness on the brown turf stacked up in a corner of the yard. "Well, now…" The old man left his work and sat down on an upturned bucket. He seemed to talk for hours. His soft voice rose and fell in the gentle cadences he used to his horses. Names-flashed in and out of his speech like kingfishers. Chantacleer ... Coronach ... Golden Pavilion ... lovely words like notes of music.. "Go on," she said when he stopped, and he would immediately begin again: "Well, now ..." Long after, it seemed, there was the sound of someone calling her name, and running footsteps in the yard. She looked up and saw Mulligan waving his disreputable billycock hat in the air.

"Mrs. Shelton, ma'am!" he shouted. "I have a message for ye from the doctor. He says I'm to bring it meself this instant minute and not be stoppin' to celebrate in me own saloon." She thought how comic he looked; the very breath of all stage Irishmen with his right breeches and cut-away coat. He should burst into song and patter any minute there in the stable yard. "Do ye beheedin' me, ma'am?" he enquired, looking doubtfully at her motionless figure. "What is it?" Maggy asked with stiff lips. He took a deep breath. "He says to tell ye it's all right. 'Tell her it's all right and 'tis meself will be out as soon as I've had me lunch' - those were his very words." Maggy sat quite still, staring at him. For a moment she couldn't take in the sense of his words and he had to repeat it all again. "Do you think she can be hearin' me, Brian Casey?" Mulligan demanded anxiously. "She acts very quare." "Sure, 'tis a shock, aither good or bad news," Casey said,- soothingly, and began brushing the sleeve of Maggy's coat with rhythmic hissing sounds. The blood began to come back into her face. "It's all right," she repeated with wonder. "It's all right." "Sure it's all right! Amn't I tellin' ye?" said Mulligan plaintively. "An' didn't I throw the telyphone away an' lave on the instant with niver a drop of the craythure inside me?"

Maggy smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Mulligan, it was very good of you," she said. "Casey, take him up to the house and get yourselves a, drink." "I will that, ma'am," Casey's voice rose. "Glory be to God l- An'will there be horses again at Floyne?" Maggy saw there were tears in the old man's faded blue eyes, and his lips were trembling. "Perhaps, Casey," she said gently, and got up and walked towards the moor. The tough heather roots dragged at her feet as she steadily climbed, and small birds, disturbed, rose, crying into the quiet air. Already the bogs were starred with a minute white flower. In a month the brown moorland would be covered with flaming gorse. The Shamus Stone rose grey and implacable against the tender sky, and a little red animal, a young vixen, perhaps, darted for cover into one of the crannies of the rocks. Maggy stood on the topmost stone and looked towards the sea. Her face was wet with tears.