This story, At the Bay, is a Mid-frequency Reader and has been adapted to suit readers with a vocabulary of 8000 words. It is available in three versions of different difficulty. This version is adapted from the Project Gutenberg version. It was adapted by Philippa Larkindale.   

AT THE BAY.

I.

Very early morning. The sun was not yet risen, and the whole of Crescent   Bay was hidden under a white sea - mist. The big bush - covered hills at the   back were smothered. You could not see where they ended and the fields   and bungalows began. The sandy road was gone and the fields and   bungalows the other side of it; there were no white dunes covered with   reddish grass beyond them; there was nothing to mark which was beach and   where was the sea. A heavy dew had fallen. The grass was blue. Big drops   hung on the bushes and just did not fall; the silvery, fluffy toi - toi   was limp on its long stalks, and all the marigolds and the pinks in the   bungalow gardens were bowed to the earth with wetness. Drenched were the   cold fuchsias, round pearls of dew lay on the flat nasturtium leaves. It   looked as though the sea had beaten up softly in the darkness, as though   one immense wave had come rippling, rippling -  - how far? Perhaps if you   had woken up in the middle of the night you might have seen a big fish   flicking in at the window and gone again....

Ah - Aah! sounded the sleepy sea. And from the bush there came the sound   of little streams flowing, quickly, lightly, slipping between the smooth   stones, gushing into ferny basins and out again; and there was the   splashing of big drops on large leaves, and something else -  - what was   it? -  - a faint stirring and shaking, the snapping of a small branch and then such   silence that it seemed some one was listening.

Round the corner of Crescent Bay, between the piled - up masses of broken   rock, a flock of sheep came trotting. They were huddled together, a   small, tossing, woolly mass, and their thin, stick - like legs trotted   along quickly as if the cold and the quiet had frightened them. Behind   them an old sheep - dog, his soaking paws covered with sand, ran along   with his nose to the ground, but carelessly, as if thinking of something   else. And then in the rocky gateway the shepherd himself appeared. He   was a lean, upright old man, in an old coat that was covered with a   web of tiny drops, velvet trousers tied under the knee, and a big hat   with a folded blue handkerchief round the brim. One hand was crammed   into his belt, the other grasped a beautifully smooth yellow stick. And   as he walked, taking his time, he kept up a very soft light whistling,   an airy, far - away tune that sounded mournful and tender. The old   dog cut an ancient caper or two and then drew up sharp, ashamed of his   light - heartedness, and walked a few dignified paces by his master's side. The sheep   ran forward in little rushes; they began to baa, and ghostly   flocks and herds answered them from under the sea. "Baa! Baaa!" For a   time they seemed to be always on the same piece of ground. There ahead   was stretched the sandy road with shallow puddles; the same soaking   bushes showed on either side and the same shadowy fence posts. Then   something immense came into view; an enormous shock - haired giant with   his arms stretched out. It was the big gum - tree outside Mrs. Stubbs'   shop, and as they passed by there was a strong but pleasant smell.   And now big spots of light gleamed in the mist. The shepherd stopped   whistling; he rubbed his red nose and wet beard on his wet sleeve and,   screwing up his eyes, glanced in the direction of the sea. The sun   was rising. It was marvellous how quickly the mist thinned, sped away,   dissolved, rolled up from the bush and was gone   as if in a hurry to escape; big twists and curls jostled and shouldered   each other as the silvery beams broadened. The far - away sky -  - a bright,   pure blue -  - was reflected in the puddles, and the drops, swimming along   the telegraph poles, flashed into points of light. Now the leaping,   glittering sea was so bright it made one's eyes ache to look at it. The   shepherd drew a pipe, the bowl as small as an acorn, out of his breast   pocket, fumbled for a chunk of speckled tobacco, pared off a few   shavings and stuffed the bowl. He was a grave, fine - looking old man.   As he lit up and the blue smoke wreathed his head, the dog, watching,   looked proud of him.

"Baa! Baaa!" The sheep spread out into a fan. They were just clear of   the summer colony before the first sleeper turned over and lifted a   drowsy head; their cry sounded in the dreams of little children... who   lifted their arms to drag down, to cuddle the darling little woolly   lambs of sleep. Then the first inhabitant appeared; it was the Burnells'   cat Florrie, sitting on the gatepost, far too early as usual, looking   for their milk - girl. When she saw the old sheep - dog she sprang up   quickly, arched her back, drew in her head, and seemed to give a   little shiver. "Ugh! What a coarse, revolting creature!" said   Florrie. But the old sheep - dog, not looking up, trotted past, flinging   out his legs from side to side. Only one of his ears twitched to prove   that he saw, and thought her a silly young female.

The breeze of morning lifted in the bush and the smell of leaves and wet   black earth mingled with the sharp smell of the sea. Myriads of birds   were singing. A goldfinch flew over the shepherd's head and, perching on   the top of a bush, it turned to the sun, ruffling its small breast   feathers. And now they had passed the fisherman's hut, passed the   charred - looking little hut where Leila the milk - girl lived with her   old Gran. The sheep strayed over a yellow swamp and Wag, the sheep - dog,   padded after, rounded them up and headed them for the steeper, narrower   rocky pass that led out of Crescent Bay and towards Daylight Cove. "Baa!   Baa!" Faint the cry came as they rocked along the fast - drying road. The   shepherd put away his pipe, dropping it into his breast - pocket so that   the little bowl hung over. And immediately the soft airy whistling began   again. Wag ran out along a ledge of rock after something that smelled,   and ran back again disgusted. Then pushing, nudging, hurrying, the sheep   rounded the bend and the shepherd followed after out of sight.

   II.

A few moments later the back door of one of the bungalows opened, and a   figure in a broad - striped bathing suit ran down the field, cleared   the gate, rushed through the long grass into the hollow, staggered   up the sandy dune, and raced for dear life over the big porous   stones, over the cold, wet pebbles, on to the hard sand that gleamed   like oil. Splish - Splosh! Splish - Splosh! The water bubbled round his   legs as Stanley Burnell waded out exulting. First man in as usual! He'd   beaten them all again. And he swooped down to wet his head and neck.

"Hail, brother! All hail, Thou Mighty One!" A velvety bass voice came   booming over the water.

Great Scott! Damnation take it! Stanley lifted up to see a dark head   bobbing far out and an arm lifted. It was Jonathan Trout -  - there before   him! "Glorious morning!" sang the voice.

"Yes, very fine!" said Stanley briefly. Why the dickens didn't the   fellow stick to his part of the sea? Why should he come rushing over to   this exact spot? Stanley gave a kick, a lunge and struck out, swimming   strongly. But Jonathan was a match for him. Up he came, his black hair   sleek on his forehead, his short beard sleek.

"I had an extraordinary dream last night!" he shouted.

What was the matter with the man? This mania for conversation irritated   Stanley beyond words. And it was always the same -  - always some rubbish   about a dream he'd had, or some silly idea he'd got hold of, or some   rot he'd been reading. Stanley turned over on his back and kicked with   his legs till he was a living fountain. But even then... "I dreamed I   was hanging over a terrifically high cliff, shouting to some one below."   You would be! thought Stanley. He could stick no more of it. He stopped   splashing. "Look here, Trout," he said, "I'm in rather a hurry this   morning."

"You're WHAT?" Jonathan was so surprised -  - or pretended to be -  - that he   sank under the water, then reappeared again blowing.

"All I mean is," said Stanley, "I've no time to -  - to -  - to fool about.   I want to get this over. I'm in a hurry. I've work to do this   morning -  - see?"

Jonathan was gone before Stanley had finished. "Pass, friend!" said the   bass voice gently, and he slid away through the water with scarcely   a ripple... But curse the fellow! He'd ruined Stanley's bathe. What an   idiot the man was! Stanley struck out to sea again, and   then as quickly swam in again, and away he rushed up the beach. He felt   cheated.

Jonathan stayed a little longer in the water. He floated, gently moving   his hands like fins, and letting the sea rock his long, skinny body. It   was curious, but in spite of everything he was fond of Stanley Burnell.   True, he had a fiendish desire to tease him sometimes, to poke fun at   him, but at bottom he was sorry for the fellow. There was something   pathetic in his determination to make a job of everything. You couldn't   help feeling he'd be caught out one day, and then what an almighty   cropper he'd come! At that moment an immense wave lifted Jonathan, rode   past him, and broke along the beach with a joyful sound. What a beauty!   And now there came another. That was the way to live -  - carelessly,   recklessly, spending oneself. He got on to his feet and began to wade   towards the shore, pressing his toes into the firm, wrinkled sand. To   take things easy, not to fight against the ebb and flow of life, but to   give way to it -  - that was what was needed. It was this tension that was   all wrong. To live -  - to live! And the perfect morning, so fresh and fair,   basking in the light, as though laughing at its own beauty, seemed to   whisper, "Why not?"

But now he was out of the water Jonathan turned blue with cold. He ached   all over; it was as though some one was wringing the blood out of him.   And stalking up the beach, shivering, all his muscles tight, he too felt   his bathe was spoilt. He'd stayed in too long.

   III.

Beryl was alone in the living - room when Stanley appeared, wearing a blue   suit, a stiff collar and a spotted tie. He looked almost uncannily   clean and brushed; he was going to town for the day. Dropping into his   chair, he pulled out his watch and put it beside his plate.

"I've just got twenty - five minutes," he said. "You might go and see if   the porridge is ready, Beryl?"

"Mother's just gone for it," said Beryl. She sat down at the table and   poured out his tea.

"Thanks!" Stanley took a sip. "Hallo!" he said in an astonished voice,   "you've forgotten the sugar."

"Oh, sorry!" But even then Beryl didn't help him; she pushed the basin   across. What did this mean? As Stanley helped himself his blue   eyes widened; they seemed to quiver. He shot a quick glance at his   sister - in - law and leaned back.

"Nothing wrong, is there?" he asked carelessly, fingering his collar.

Beryl's head was bent; she turned her plate in her fingers.

"Nothing," said her light voice. Then she too looked up, and smiled at   Stanley. "Why should there be?"

"O - oh! No reason at all as far as I know. I thought you seemed rather -  - "

At that moment the door opened and the three little girls appeared, each   carrying a porridge plate. They were dressed alike in blue jerseys and   pants; their brown legs were bare, and each had her hair pinned up in what was called a horse's tail. Behind them came Mrs. Fairfield with the tray.

"Carefully, children," she warned. But they were taking the very   greatest care. They loved being allowed to carry things. "Have you said   good morning to your father?"

"Yes, grandma." They settled themselves on the bench opposite Stanley   and Beryl.

"Good morning, Stanley!" Old Mrs. Fairfield gave him his plate.

"Morning, mother! How's the boy?"

"Splendid! He only woke up once last night. What a perfect morning!" The   old woman paused, her hand on the loaf of bread, to gaze out of the   open door into the garden. The sea sounded. Through the wide - open   window streamed the sun on to the yellow varnished walls and bare floor.   Everything on the table flashed and glittered. In the middle there was   an old salad bowl filled with yellow and red flowers. She smiled,   and a look of deep content shone in her eyes.

"You might cut me a slice of that bread, mother," said Stanley. "I've   only twelve and a half minutes before the coach passes. Has anyone given   my shoes to the servant girl?"

"Yes, they're ready for you." Mrs. Fairfield was quite unruffled.

"Oh, Kezia! Why are you such a messy child!" cried Beryl despairingly.

"Me, Aunt Beryl?" Kezia stared at her. What had she done now? She had   only dug a river down the middle of her porridge, filled it, and was   eating the banks away. But she did that every single morning, and no one   had said a word up till now.

"Why can't you eat your food properly like Isabel and Lottie?" How   unfair grown - ups are!

"But Lottie always makes a floating island, don't you, Lottie?"

"I don't," said Isabel smartly. "I just sprinkle mine with sugar and put   on the milk and finish it. Only babies play with their food."

Stanley pushed back his chair and got up.

"Would you get me those shoes, mother? And, Beryl, if you've finished,   I wish you'd cut down to the gate and stop the coach. Run in to your   mother, Isabel, and ask her where my bowler hat's been put. Wait a   minute -  - have you children been playing with my stick?"

"No, father!"

"But I put it here." Stanley began to bluster. "I remember distinctly   putting it in this corner. Now, who's had it? There's no time to lose.   Look sharp! The stick's got to be found."

Even Alice, the servant - girl, was drawn into the chase. "You haven't   been using it to poke the kitchen fire with by any chance?"

Stanley dashed into the bedroom where Linda was lying. "Most   extraordinary thing. I can't keep a single possession to myself. They've   made away with my stick, now!"

"Stick, dear? What stick?" Linda's vagueness on these occasions could   not be real, Stanley decided. Would nobody sympathize with him?

"Coach! Coach, Stanley!" Beryl's voice cried from the gate.

Stanley waved his arm to Linda. "No time to say good - bye!" he cried. And   he meant that as a punishment to her.

He snatched his bowler hat, dashed out of the house, and swung down the   garden path. Yes, the coach was there waiting, and Beryl, leaning over   the open gate, was laughing up at somebody or other just as if nothing   had happened. The heartlessness of women! The way they took it for   granted it was your job to slave away for them while they didn't even   take the trouble to see that your walking - stick wasn't lost. Kelly   trailed his whip across the horses.

"Good - bye, Stanley," called Beryl, sweetly and gaily. It was easy enough   to say good - bye! And there she stood, idle, shading her eyes with her   hand. The worst of it was Stanley had to shout good - bye too, for the   sake of appearances. Then he saw her turn, give a little skip and run   back to the house. She was glad to be rid of him!

Yes, she was thankful. Into the living - room she ran and called "He's   gone!" Linda cried from her room: "Beryl! Has Stanley gone?" Old Mrs.   Fairfield appeared, carrying the boy in his little flannel jacket.

"Gone?"

"Gone!"

Oh, the relief, the difference it made to have the man out of the house.   Their very voices were changed as they called to one another; they   sounded warm and loving and as if they shared a secret. Beryl went over   to the table. "Have another cup of tea, mother. It's still hot." She   wanted, somehow, to celebrate the fact that they could do what they   liked now. There was no man to disturb them; the whole perfect day was   theirs.

"No, thank you, child," said old Mrs. Fairfield, but the way at that   moment she tossed the boy up and said "a - goos - a - goos - a - ga!" to him   meant that she felt the same. The little girls ran into the field like   chickens let out of a coop.

Even Alice, the servant - girl, washing up the dishes in the kitchen,   caught the infection and used the precious tank water in a perfectly   reckless fashion.

"Oh, these men!" said she, and she plunged the teapot into the bowl and   held it under the water even after it had stopped bubbling, as if it too   was a man and drowning was too good for them.

   IV.

"Wait for me, Isa - bel! Kezia, wait for me!"

There was poor little Lottie, left behind again, because she found it so   fearfully hard to get over the gate by herself. When she stood on the   first rung her knees began to wobble; she grasped the post. Then you had   to put one leg over. But which leg? She never could decide. And when she   did finally put one leg over with a sort of stamp of despair -  - then the   feeling was awful. She was half in the field still and half in the   long grass. She clutched the post desperately and lifted up her   voice. "Wait for me!"

"No, don't you wait for her, Kezia!" said Isabel. "She's such a little   silly. She's always making a fuss. Come on!" And she tugged Kezia's   jersey. "You can use my bucket if you come with me," she said kindly.   "It's bigger than yours." But Kezia couldn't leave Lottie all by   herself. She ran back to her. By this time Lottie was very red in the   face and breathing heavily.

"Here, put your other foot over," said Kezia.

"Where?"

Lottie looked down at Kezia as if from a mountain height.

"Here where my hand is." Kezia patted the place.

"Oh, there do you mean!" Lottie gave a deep sigh and put the second foot   over.

"Now -  - sort of turn round and sit down and slide," said Kezia.

"But there's nothing to sit down on, Kezia," said Lottie.

She managed it at last, and once it was over she shook herself and began   to beam.

"I'm getting better at climbing over gates, aren't I, Kezia?"

Lottie's was a very hopeful nature.

The pink and the blue sunhat followed Isabel's bright red sunhat   up that sliding, slipping hill. At the top they paused to decide where   to go and to have a good stare at who was there already. Seen from   behind, standing against the skyline, pointing largely with their   spades, they looked like minute puzzled explorers.

The whole family of Samuel Josephs was there already with their   carer, who sat on a camp - stool and kept order with a whistle that   she wore tied round her neck, and a small cane with which she directed   operations. The Samuel Josephs never played by themselves or managed   their own game. If they did, it ended in the boys pouring water down   the girls' necks or the girls trying to put little black crabs into the   boys' pockets. So Mrs. S. J. and the poor lady - help drew up what she   called a "programme" every morning to keep them "amused and out of   mischief." It was all competitions or races or round games. Everything   began with a piercing blast of the whistle and ended with   another. There were even prizes -  - large, rather dirty paper parcels which   the carer with a sour little smile drew out of a bulging string   kit. The Samuel Josephs fought fearfully for the prizes and cheated and   pinched one another's arms -  - they were all expert at pinching. The only time   the Burnell children ever played with them Kezia had got a prize,   and when she undid three bits of paper she found a very small rusty   button - hook. She couldn't understand why they made such a fuss....

But they never played with the Samuel Josephs now or even went to their   parties. The Samuel Josephs were always giving children's parties at   the Bay and there was always the same food. A big basin of   very brown fruit - salad, buns cut into four and a jug full of   something the carer called "Limonadear." And you went away in the   evening with half the frill torn off your frock or something spilled all   down the front of your dress, leaving the Samuel Josephs   leaping like savages on their lawn. No! They were too awful.

On the other side of the beach, close down to the water, two little   boys, their trousers rolled up, twinkled like spiders. One was digging,   the other ran in and out of the water, filling a small bucket. They   were the Trout boys, Pip and Rags. But Pip was so busy digging and Rags   was so busy helping that they didn't see their little cousins until they   were quite close.

"Look!" said Pip. "Look what I've discovered." And he showed them an old   wet, squashed - looking boot. The three little girls stared.

"Whatever are you going to do with it?" asked Kezia.

"Keep it, of course!" Pip was very scornful. "It's a find -  - see?"

Yes, Kezia saw that. All the same....

"There's lots of things buried in the sand," explained Pip. "They get   chucked up from wrecks. Treasure. Why -  - you might find -  - "

"But why does Rags have to keep on pouring water in?" asked Lottie.

"Oh, that's to moisten it," said Pip, "to make the work a bit easier.   Keep it up, Rags."

And good little Rags ran up and down, pouring in the water that turned   brown like cocoa.

"Here, shall I show you what I found yesterday?" said Pip mysteriously,   and he stuck his spade into the sand. "Promise not to tell."

They promised.

"Say, cross my heart."

The little girls said it.

Pip took something out of his pocket, rubbed it a long time on the front   of his jersey, then breathed on it and rubbed it again.

"Now turn round!" he ordered.

They turned round.      "All look the same way! Keep still! Now!"

And his hand opened; he held up to the light something that flashed,   that winked, that was a most lovely green.

"It's an emerald," said Pip solemnly.

"Is it really, Pip?" Even Isabel was impressed.

The lovely green thing seemed to dance in Pip's fingers. Aunt Beryl had   an emerald in a ring, but it was a very small one. This one was as big as   a star and far more beautiful.

   V.

As the morning lengthened whole parties appeared over the sand - hills   and came down on the beach to bathe. It was understood that at eleven   o'clock the women and children of the summer colony had the sea to   themselves. First the women undressed, pulled on their bathing dresses   and covered their heads in hideous caps like sponge bags; then the   children were unbuttoned. The beach was strewn with little heaps of   clothes and shoes; the big summer hats, with stones on them to keep them   from blowing away, looked like immense shells. It was strange that even   the sea seemed to sound differently when all those leaping, laughing   figures ran into the waves. Old Mrs. Fairfield, in a lilac cotton dress   and a black hat tied under the chin, gathered her little brood and got   them ready. The little Trout boys whipped their shirts over their heads,   and away the five sped, while their grandma sat with one hand in her   knitting - bag ready to draw out the ball of wool when she was satisfied   they were safely in.

The firm compact little girls were not half so brave as the tender,   delicate - looking little boys. Pip and Rags, shivering, crouching down,   slapping the water, never hesitated. But Isabel, who could swim twelve   strokes, and Kezia, who could nearly swim eight, only followed on the   strict understanding they were not to be splashed. As for Lottie, she   didn't follow at all. She liked to be left to go in her own way,   please. And that way was to sit down at the edge of the water, her legs   straight, her knees pressed together, and to make vague motions with her   arms as if she expected to be wafted out to sea. But when a bigger wave   than usual, came along in her direction, she scrambled to her feet with a face of horror and flew up the beach   again.

"Here, mother, keep those for me, will you?"

Two rings and a thin gold chain were dropped into Mrs Fairfield's lap.

"Yes, dear. But aren't you going to bathe here?"

"No - o," Beryl drawled. She sounded vague. "I'm undressing farther along.   I'm going to bathe with Mrs. Harry Kember."

"Very well." But Mrs. Fairfield's lips set. She disapproved of Mrs Harry   Kember. Beryl knew it.

Poor old mother, she smiled, as she skimmed over the stones. Poor old   mother! Old! Oh, what joy, what bliss it was to be young....

"You look very pleased," said Mrs. Harry Kember. She sat hunched up on   the stones, her arms round her knees, smoking.

"It's such a lovely day," said Beryl, smiling down at her.

"Oh my dear!" Mrs. Harry Kember's voice sounded as though she knew   better than that. But then her voice always sounded as though she   knew something better about you than you did yourself. She was a long,   strange - looking woman with narrow hands and feet. Her face, too, was   long and narrow and exhausted - looking; even her fair curled fringe   looked burnt out and withered. She was the only woman at the Bay who   smoked, and she smoked incessantly, keeping the cigarette between her   lips while she talked, and only taking it out when the ash was so long   you could not understand why it did not fall. When she was not playing   bridge -  - she played bridge every day of her life -  - she spent her time   lying in the full glare of the sun. She could stand any amount of   it; she never had enough. All the same, it did not seem to warm her.   Parched, withered, cold, she lay stretched on the stones like a piece   of tossed - up driftwood. The women at the Bay thought she was very, very   uncultured. Her lack of vanity, her slang, the way she treated men as though   she was one of them, and the fact that she didn't care twopence about   her house and called the servant Gladys "Glad - eyes," was disgraceful.   Standing on the veranda steps Mrs. Kember would call in her indifferent,   tired voice, "I say, Glad - eyes, you might heave me a handkerchief if   I've got one, will you?" And Glad - eyes, a red bow in her hair instead of   a cap, and white shoes, came running with a cheeky smile. It was an   absolute scandal! True, she had no children, and her husband... Here the   voices were always raised; they became fervent. How can he have married   her? How can he, how can he? It must have been money, of course, but   even then!

Mrs. Kember's husband was at least ten years younger than she was, and   so incredibly handsome that he looked like a mask or a most perfect   illustration in an American novel rather than a man. Black hair, dark   blue eyes, red lips, a slow sleepy smile, a fine tennis player, a   perfect dancer, and with it all a mystery. Harry Kember was like a man   walking in his sleep. Men couldn't stand him, they couldn't get a word   out of the chap; he ignored his wife just as she ignored him. How did   he live? Of course there were stories, but such stories! They simply   couldn't be told. The women he'd been seen with, the places he'd been   seen in... but nothing was ever certain, nothing definite. Some of the   women at the Bay privately thought he'd commit a murder one day. Yes,   even while they talked to Mrs. Kember and took in the awful concoction   she was wearing, they saw her, stretched as she lay on the beach; but   cold, unattractive, and still with a cigarette stuck in the corner of her   mouth.

Mrs. Kember rose, yawned, undid her belt buckle, and tugged at the   tape of her blouse. And Beryl stepped out of her skirt and shed her   jersey, and stood up in her underwear.

"Mercy on us," said Mrs. Harry Kember, "what a little beauty you are!"

"Don't!" said Beryl softly; but, drawing off one stocking and then the   other, she felt a little beauty.

"My dear -  - why not?" said Mrs. Harry Kember, stamping on her own   clothes. Really -  - her underwear! A pair of blue cotton pants and   a linen top that reminded one somehow of a pillow - case... ".

Beryl turned her back and began the complicated movements of someone   who is trying to take off her clothes and to pull on her bathing - dress   all at one and the same time.

"Oh, my dear -  - don't mind me," said Mrs. Harry Kember. "Why be shy? I   shan't eat you. I shan't be shocked like those other silly women." And she   gave her strange laugh and grimaced at the other women.

But Beryl was shy. She never undressed in front of anybody. Was that   silly? Mrs. Harry Kember made her feel it was silly, even something   to be ashamed of. Why be shy indeed! She glanced quickly at her friend   standing so boldly in her torn under-garment and lighting a fresh cigarette;   and a quick, bold, evil feeling started up in her breast. Laughing   recklessly, she drew on the limp, sandy - feeling bathing - dress that was   not quite dry and fastened the twisted buttons.

"That's better," said Mrs. Harry Kember. They began to go down the   beach together. "Really, it's a sin for you to wear clothes, my dear.   Somebody's got to tell you some day."

The water was quite warm. It was that marvellous transparent blue,   flecked with silver, but the sand at the bottom looked gold; when you   kicked with your toes there rose a little puff of gold - dust. Now the   waves just reached her breast. Beryl stood, her arms outstretched,   gazing out, and as each wave came she gave the slightest little jump, so   that it seemed it was the wave which lifted her so gently.

"I believe in pretty girls having a good time," said Mrs. Harry Kember.   "Why not? Don't you make a mistake, my dear. Enjoy yourself." And   suddenly she turned turtle, disappeared, and swam away quickly, quickly,   like a rat. Then she flicked round and began swimming back. She was   going to say something else. Beryl felt that she was being poisoned   by this cold woman, but she longed to hear. But oh, how strange, how   horrible! As Mrs. Harry Kember came up close she looked, in her black   waterproof bathing - cap, with her sleepy face lifted above the water,   just her chin touching, like a horrible caricature of her husband.

   VI.

In a chair, under a manuka tree that grew in the middle of   the front grass patch, Linda Burnell dreamed the morning away. She did   nothing. She looked up at the dark, close, dry leaves of the manuka, at   the bits of blue between, and now and again a tiny yellowish flower   dropped on her. Pretty -  - yes, if you held one of those flowers on the   palm of your hand and looked at it closely, it was an exquisite small   thing. Each pale yellow petal shone as if each was the careful work of a   loving hand. The tiny tongue in the centre gave it the shape of a bell.   And when you turned it over the outside was a deep bronze colour. But   as soon as they flowered, they fell and were scattered. You brushed them   off your frock as you talked; the horrid little things got caught in   one's hair. Why, then, flower at all? Who takes the trouble -  - or the   joy -  - to make all these things that are wasted, wasted... It was uncanny.

On the grass beside her, lying between two pillows, was the boy. Sound   asleep he lay, his head turned away from his mother. His fine dark hair   looked more like a shadow than like real hair, but his ear was a bright,   deep coral. Linda clasped her hands above her head and crossed her feet.   It was very pleasant to know that all these bungalows were empty, that   everybody was down on the beach, out of sight, out of hearing. She had   the garden to herself; she was alone.

Dazzling white the picotees shone; the golden - eyed marigold glittered;   the nasturtiums wreathed the veranda poles in green and gold flame. If   only one had time to look at these flowers long enough, time to get over   the sense of novelty and strangeness, time to know them! But as soon as   one paused to part the petals, to discover the under - side of the leaf,   along came Life and one was swept away. And, lying in her cane chair,   Linda felt so light; she felt like a leaf. Along came Life like a wind   and she was seized and shaken; she had to go. Oh dear, would it always   be so? Was there no escape?

... Now she sat on the veranda of their Tasmanian home, leaning against   her father's knee. And he promised, "As soon as you and I are old   enough, Linny, we'll cut off somewhere, we'll escape. Two boys together.   I have a fancy I'd like to sail up a river in China." Linda saw that   river, very wide, covered with little rafts and boats. She saw the   yellow hats of the boatmen and she heard their high, thin voices as they   called...

"Yes, papa."

But just then a very broad young man with bright ginger hair walked   slowly past their house, and slowly, solemnly even, with no hat. Linda's   father pulled her ear teasingly, in the way he had.

"Linny's beau," he whispered.

"Oh, papa, fancy being married to Stanley Burnell!"

Well, she was married to him. And what was more she loved him. Not   the Stanley whom everyone saw, not the everyday one; but a timid,   sensitive, innocent Stanley who knelt down every night to say his   prayers, and who longed to be good. Stanley was simple. If he believed   in people -  - as he believed in her, for instance -  - it was with his whole   heart. He could not be disloyal; he could not tell a lie. And how    terribly he suffered if he thought anyone -  - she -  - was not being completely honest or sincere with him! "This is too subtle for me!" He flung   out the words, but his open, quivering, distraught look was like the   look of a trapped beast.

But the trouble was -  - here Linda felt almost inclined to laugh, though   Heaven knows it was no laughing matter -  - she saw her Stanley so seldom.   There were glimpses, moments, breathing spaces of calm, but all the rest   of the time it was like living in a house that couldn't be cured of the   habit of catching on fire, on a ship that got wrecked every day. And it   was always Stanley who was in the thick of the danger. Her whole time   was spent in rescuing him, and restoring him, and calming him down, and   listening to his story. And what was left of her time was spent in the   dread of having children.

Linda frowned; she sat up quickly in her steamer chair and clasped her   ankles. Yes, that was her real grudge against life; that was what she   could not understand. That was the question she asked and asked, and   listened in vain for the answer. It was all very well to say it was   the common lot of women to bear children. It wasn't true. She, for one,   could prove that wrong. She was broken, made weak, her courage was gone,   through child - bearing. And what made it doubly hard to bear was, she did   not love her children. It was useless pretending. Even if she had had   the strength she never would have nursed and played with the little   girls. No, it was as though a cold breath had chilled her through and   through on each of those awful journeys; she had no warmth left to give   them. As to the boy -  - well, thank Heaven, mother had taken him; he was   mother's, or Beryl's, or anybody's who wanted him. She had hardly   held him in her arms. She was so indifferent about him that as he lay   there... Linda glanced down.

The boy had turned over. He lay facing her, and he was no longer asleep.   His dark - blue, baby eyes were open; he looked as though he was peeping   at his mother. And suddenly his face dimpled; it broke into a wide,   toothless smile, a perfect beam, no less.

"I'm here!" that happy smile seemed to say. "Why don't you like me?"

There was something so quaint, so unexpected about that smile that Linda   smiled herself. But she checked herself and said to the boy coldly, "I   don't like babies."

"Don't like babies?" The boy couldn't believe her. "Don't like me?" He   waved his arms foolishly at his mother.

Linda dropped off her chair on to the grass.

"Why do you keep on smiling?" she said severely. "If you knew what I was   thinking about, you wouldn't."

But he only squeezed up his eyes, slyly, and rolled his head on the   pillow. He didn't believe a word she said.

"We know all about that!" smiled the boy.

Linda was so astonished at the confidence of this little creature... Ah   no, be sincere. That was not what she felt; it was something far   different, it was something so new, so... The tears danced in her eyes;   she breathed in a small whisper to the boy, "Hallo, my funny!"

But by now the boy had forgotten his mother. He was serious again.   Something pink, something soft waved in front of him. He made a grab at   it and it immediately disappeared. But when he lay back, another, like   the first, appeared. This time he determined to catch it. He made a   tremendous effort and rolled right over.

   VII.

The tide was out; the beach was deserted; lazily flopped the warm sea.   The sun beat down, beat down hot and fiery on the fine sand, baking   the grey and blue and black and white - veined pebbles. It sucked up the   little drop of water that lay in the hollow of the curved shells; it   bleached the pink convolvulus that threaded through and through   the sand - hills. Nothing seemed to move but the small sand - hoppers.   Pit - pit - pit! They were never still.

Over there on the weed - hung rocks that looked at low tide like shaggy   beasts come down to the water to drink, the sunlight seemed to spin like   a silver coin dropped into each of the small rock pools. They danced,   they quivered, and minute ripples lapped the porous shores. Looking   down, bending over, each pool was like a lake with pink and blue houses   clustered on the shores; and oh! the vast mountainous country behind   those houses -  - the ravines, the passes, the dangerous creeks and   fearful tracks that led to the water's edge. Underneath waved the   sea - forest -  - pink thread - like trees.  Now a stone on the bottom moved, rocked, and there   was a glimpse of a black feeler; now a thread - like creature wavered by   and was lost. Something was happening to the pink, waving trees; they   were changing to a cold moonlight blue. And now there sounded the   faintest "plop." Who made that sound? What was going on down there? And   how strong, how damp the seaweed smelt in the hot sun...

The green blinds were drawn in the bungalows of the summer colony. Over   the verandas, prone on the field, flung over the fences, there were   exhausted - looking bathing - dresses and rough striped towels. Each back   window seemed to have a pair of sand - shoes on the sill and some lumps of   rock or a bucket or a collection of shells. The bush quivered in   a haze of heat; the sandy road was empty except for the Trouts' dog   Snooker, who lay stretched in the very middle of it. His blue eye   was turned up, his legs stuck out stiffly, and he gave an occasional   desperate - sounding puff, as much as to say he had decided to make an end   of it and was only waiting for some kind cart to come along.

"What are you looking at, my grandma? Why do you keep stopping and sort   of staring at the wall?"

Kezia and her grandmother were taking their afternoon nap together. The little   girl, wearing only her underwear, her arms and   legs bare, lay on one of the puffed - up pillows of her grandma's bed, and   the old woman, in a white ruffled dressing - gown, sat in a rocker at the   window, with a long piece of pink knitting in her lap. This room   that they shared, like the other rooms of the bungalow, was of light   varnished wood and the floor was bare. The furniture was of the   shabbiest, the simplest. The dressing - table, for instance, was a   packing - case in covered with a cloth, and the mirror above was   very strange; it was as though a little piece of forked lightning was   imprisoned in it. On the table there stood a jar of small pink flowers, pressed   so tightly together they looked more like a velvet pincushion, and a   special shell which Kezia had given her grandma for a pin - tray, and   another even more special one, which she had thought would make a very nice   place for a watch to curl up in.

"Tell me, grandma," said Kezia.

The old woman sighed, whipped the wool twice round her thumb, and drew   the bone needle through. She was casting on.

"I was thinking of your Uncle William, darling," she said quietly.

"My Australian Uncle William?" said Kezia. She had another.

"Yes, of course."

"The one I never saw?"

"That was the one."

"Well, what happened to him?" Kezia knew perfectly well, but she wanted   to be told again.

"He went to the mines, and he got ill there and died," said old   Mrs. Fairfield.

Kezia blinked and considered the picture again... a little man fallen   over like a tin soldier by the side of a big black hole.

"Does it make you sad to think about him, grandma?" She hated her   grandma to be sad.

It was the old woman's turn to consider. Did it make her sad? To look   back, back. To stare down the years, as Kezia had seen her doing. To   look after them as a woman does, long after they were out of sight. Did   it make her sad? No, life was like that.

"No, Kezia."

"But why?" asked Kezia. She lifted one bare arm and began to draw things   in the air. "Why did Uncle William have to die? He wasn't old."

Mrs. Fairfield began counting the stitches in threes. "It just   happened," she said in an absorbed voice.

"Does everybody have to die?" asked Kezia.

"Everybody!"

"Me?" Kezia sounded fearfully incredulous.

"Some day, my darling."

"But, grandma." Kezia waved her left leg and moved her toes. They felt   sandy. "What if I just won't?"

The old woman sighed again and drew a long thread from the ball.

"We're not asked, Kezia," she said sadly. "It happens to all of us   sooner or later."

Kezia lay still thinking this over. She didn't want to die. It meant she   would have to leave here, leave everywhere, for ever, leave -  - leave her   grandma. She rolled over quickly.

"Grandma," she said in a startled voice.

"What, my pet!"      "You're not to die." Kezia was very decided.

"Ah, Kezia" -  - her grandma looked up and smiled and shook her head -  - "don't   let's talk about it."

"But you're not to. You couldn't leave me. You couldn't not be there."   This was awful. "Promise me you won't ever do it, grandma," pleaded   Kezia.

The old woman went on knitting.

"Promise me! Say never!"

But still her grandma was silent.

Kezia rolled off her bed; she couldn't bear it any longer, and lightly   she leapt on to her grandma's knees, clasped her hands round the old   woman's throat and began kissing her, under the chin, behind the ear,   and blowing down her neck.

"Say never... say never... say never -  - " She gasped between the kisses. And   then she began, very softly and lightly, to tickle her grandma.

"Kezia!" The old woman dropped her knitting. She swung back in the   rocker. She began to tickle Kezia. "Say never, say never, say never,"   gurgled Kezia, while they lay there laughing in each other's arms.   "Come, that's enough, my squirrel! That's enough, my wild pony!" said   old Mrs. Fairfield, setting her cap straight. "Pick up my knitting."

Both of them had forgotten what the "never" was about.

   VIII.

The sun was still full on the garden when the back door of the Burnells'   shut with a bang, and a very gay figure walked down the path to the   gate. It was Alice, the servant - girl, dressed for her afternoon out. She   wore a white cotton dress with such large red spots on it and so many   that they made you shudder, white shoes and a hat decorated    with poppies. Of course she wore gloves, white ones, stained   at the fastenings, and in one hand she carried a very   old - looking umbrella to shade her from the sun.

Beryl, sitting in the window, fanning her freshly - washed hair, thought   she had never seen such a sight. If Alice had only blacked her face with   a piece of cork before she started out, the picture would have been   complete. And where did a girl like that go to in a place like this? The   heart - shaped Fijian fan beat scornfully at that lovely bright mane. She   supposed Alice had picked up some horrible common young man and they'd   go off into the bush together. Pity to have made herself so conspicuous;   they'd have hard work to hide with Alice in that rig - out.

But no, Beryl was unfair. Alice was going to tea with Mrs Stubbs, who'd   sent her an "invite" by the little boy who called for orders. She had   taken ever such a liking to Mrs. Stubbs ever since the first time she   went to the shop to get something for her mosquito bites.

"Dear heart!" Mrs. Stubbs had clapped her hand to her side. "I never   seen anyone so eaten. You might have been attacked by cannibals."

Alice did wish there'd been a bit of life on the road though. Made her   feel so queer, having nobody behind her. Made her feel all weak in the   spine. She couldn't believe that some one wasn't watching her. And yet   it was silly to turn round; it gave you away. She pulled up her gloves,   hummed to herself and said to the distant gum - tree, "Shan't be long   now." But that was hardly company.

Mrs. Stubbs's shop was perched on a little hill just off the road. It   had two big windows for eyes, a broad veranda for a hat, and the sign on   the roof, scrawled MRS. STUBBS'S, was like a little card stuck in the hat crown.

On the veranda there hung a long string of bathing - dresses, clinging   together as though they'd just been rescued from the sea rather than   waiting to go in, and beside them there hung a cluster of sandshoes so   extraordinarily mixed that to get at one pair you had to tear apart and   forcibly separate at least fifty. Even then it was the rarest thing   to find the left that belonged to the right. So many people had lost   patience and gone off with one shoe that fitted and one that was a   little too big... Mrs. Stubbs prided herself on keeping something   of everything. The two windows, arranged in the form of precarious   pyramids, were crammed so tight, piled so high, that it seemed only a   conjurer could prevent them from toppling over. In the left - hand corner   of one window, glued to the pane, there   was -  - and there had been forever -  - a notice.

LOST! HANSOME GOLE BROOCH SOLID GOLD ON OR NEAR BEACH REWARD OFFERED

Alice pressed open the door. The bell rang, the red curtains   parted, and Mrs. Stubbs appeared. With her broad smile and the long   bacon knife in her hand, she looked like a friendly criminal. Alice was   welcomed so warmly that she found it quite difficult to keep up her   "manners." They consisted of persistent little coughs and hems, pulls at   her gloves, tweaks at her skirt, and a curious difficulty in seeing what   was set before her or understanding what was said.

Tea was laid on the parlour table -  - ham, sardines, a whole pound   of butter, and such a large johnny cake that it looked like an   advertisement for somebody's baking - powder. But the small stove roared   so loudly that it was useless to try to talk above it. Alice sat down   on the edge of a basket - chair while Mrs. Stubbs pumped the stove   still higher. Suddenly Mrs. Stubbs whipped the cushion off a chair and   disclosed a large brown - paper parcel.

"I've just had some new photos taken, my dear," she shouted cheerfully   to Alice. "Tell me what you think of them."

In a very dainty, refined way Alice wet her finger and put the tissue   back from the first one. Life! How many there were! There were three   dozen at least. And she held it up to the light.

Mrs. Stubbs sat in an arm - chair, leaning very much to one side. There   was a look of mild astonishment on her large face, and well there might   be. For though the arm - chair stood on a carpet, to the left of it,   miraculously skirting the carpet - border, there was a dashing water - fall.   On her right stood a Grecian pillar with a giant fern - tree on either   side of it, and in the background towered a gaunt mountain, pale with   snow.

"It is a nice style, isn't it?" shouted Mrs. Stubbs; and Alice had   just screamed "Sweetly" when the roaring of the stove died   down, then ceased and she said "Pretty" in a silence that was   frightening.

"Draw up your chair, my dear," said Mrs. Stubbs, beginning to pour out.   "Yes," she said thoughtfully, as she handed the tea, "but I don't care   about the size. I'm having an enlargement. All very well for Christmas   cards, but I never was the one for small photos myself. You get no   comfort out of them. To say the truth, I find them disheartening."

Alice quite saw what she meant.

"Size," said Mrs. Stubbs. "Give me size. That was what my poor dear   husband was always saying. He couldn't stand anything small. Gave him   the creeps. And, strange as it may seem, my dear" -  - here Mrs. Stubbs   creaked and seemed to expand herself at the memory -  - "it was dropsy that   carried him off at the last. Many's the time they drawn one and a half   pints from 'im at the hospital... It seemed like a judgement."

Alice burned to know exactly what it was that was drawn from him. She   ventured, "I suppose it was water."

But Mrs. Stubbs fixed Alice with her eyes and replied, "It was   liquid, my dear."

Liquid! Alice jumped away from the word like a cat and came back to it,   nosing and wary.

"That's 'im!" said Mrs. Stubbs, and she pointed dramatically to the   life - size head and shoulders of a burly man with a dead white rose in   the buttonhole of his coat that made you think of a curl of cold mutton   fat. Just below, in silver letters on a red cardboard ground, were the   words, "Be not afraid, it is I."

"It's ever such a fine face," said Alice faintly.

The pale - blue bow on the top of Mrs. Stubbs's fair curly hair quivered.   She arched her plump neck. What a neck she had! It was bright pink where   it began and then it changed to warm apricot, and that faded to the   colour of a brown egg and then to a deep creamy.

"All the same, my dear," she said surprisingly, "freedom's best!" Her   soft, fat chuckle sounded like a purr. "Freedom's best," said Mrs.   Stubbs again.

Freedom! Alice gave a loud, silly little giggle. She felt awkward. Her   mind flew back to her own kitchen. Ever so queer! She wanted to be back   in it again.

   IX.

A strange company assembled in the Burnells' washhouse after tea. Round   the table there sat a bull, a rooster, a donkey that kept forgetting it   was a donkey, a sheep and a bee. The washhouse was the perfect place for   such a meeting because they could make as much noise as they liked, and   nobody ever interrupted. It was a small tin shed standing apart from the   bungalow. Against the wall there was a deep trough and in the corner a   copper with a basket of clothes - pegs on top of it. The little window,   spun over with spider webs, had a piece of candle and a mouse - trap on the   dusty sill. There were clotheslines criss - crossed overhead and, hanging   from a peg on the wall, a very big, a huge, rusty horseshoe. The table   was in the middle with a form at either side.

"You can't be a bee, Kezia. A bee's not an animal. It's an insect."

"Oh, but I do want to be a bee frightfully," wailed Kezia... A tiny bee,   all yellow - furry, with striped legs. She drew her legs up under her and   leaned over the table. She felt she was a bee.

"An insect must be an animal," she said stoutly. "It makes a noise. It's   not like a fish."

"I'm a bull, I'm a bull!" cried Pip. And he gave such a tremendous   bellow -  - how did he make that noise? -  - that Lottie looked quite alarmed.

"I'll be a sheep," said little Rags. "A whole lot of sheep went past   this morning."

"How do you know?"

"Dad heard them. Baa!" He sounded like the little lamb that trots behind   and seems to wait to be carried.

"Cock - a - doodle - do!" shrilled Isabel. With her red cheeks and bright eyes   she looked like a rooster.

"What'll I be?" Lottie asked everybody, and she sat there smiling,   waiting for them to decide for her. It had to be an easy one.

"Be a donkey, Lottie." It was Kezia's suggestion. "Hee - haw! You can't   forget that."

"Hee - haw!" said Lottie solemnly. "When do I have to say it?"

"I'll explain, I'll explain," said the bull. It was he who had the   cards. He waved them round his head. "All be quiet! All listen!" And he   waited for them. "Look here, Lottie." He turned up a card. "It's got two   spots on it -  - see? Now, if you put that card in the middle and somebody   else has one with two spots as well, you say 'Hee - haw,' and the card's   yours."

"Mine?" Lottie was round - eyed. "To keep?"

"No, silly. Just for the game, see? Just while we're playing." The bull   was very cross with her.

"Oh, Lottie, you are a little silly," said the proud rooster.

Lottie looked at both of them. Then she hung her head; her lip quivered.   "I don't want to play," she whispered. The others glanced at one another   like conspirators. All of them knew what that meant. She would go away   and be discovered somewhere standing with her face covered, in a corner, or against a wall, or even behind a chair.

"Yes, you do, Lottie. It's quite easy," said Kezia.

And Isabel, repentant, said exactly like a grown - up, "Watch me, Lottie,   and you'll soon learn."

"Cheer up, Lot," said Pip. "There, I know what I'll do. I'll give you   the first one. It's mine, really, but I'll give it to you. Here you   are." And he slammed the card down in front of Lottie.

Lottie revived at that. But now she was in another difficulty. "I   haven't got a hanky," she said; "I want one badly, too."

"Here, Lottie, you can use mine." Rags dipped into his sailor blouse and   brought up a very wet - looking one, knotted together. "Be very careful,"   he warned her. "Only use that corner. Don't undo it. I've got a little   starfish inside I'm going to try and tame."

"Oh, come on, you girls," said the bull. "And mind -  - you're not to look   at your cards. You've got to keep your hands under the table till I say   'Go.'"

Smack went the cards round the table. They tried with all their might to   see, but Pip was too quick for them. It was very exciting, sitting there   in the washhouse; it was all they could do not to burst into a little   chorus of animals before Pip had finished dealing.

"Now, Lottie, you begin."

Timidly Lottie stretched out a hand, took the top card off her pack, had   a good look at it -  - it was plain she was counting the spots -  - and put it   down.

"No, Lottie, you can't do that. You mustn't look first. You must turn it   the other way over."

"But then everybody will see it the same time as me," said Lottie.

The game proceeded. Mooe - ooo - er! The bull was terrible. He charged over   the table and seemed to eat the cards up.

Bss - ss! said the bee.

Cock - a - doodle - do! Isabel stood up in her excitement and moved her elbows   like wings.

Baa! Little Rags put down the King of Diamonds and Lottie put down the   one they called the King of Spain. She had hardly any cards left.

"Why don't you call out, Lottie?"

"I've forgotten what I am," said the donkey woefully.

"Well, change! Be a dog instead! Bow - wow!"

"Oh yes. That's much easier." Lottie smiled again. But when she and   Kezia both had a one Kezia waited on purpose. The others made signs to   Lottie and pointed. Lottie turned very red; she looked bewildered, and   at last she said, "Hee - haw! Ke - zia."

"Ss! Wait a minute!" They were in the very thick of it when the bull   stopped them, holding up his hand. "What's that? What's that noise?"

"What noise? What do you mean?" asked the rooster.

"Ss! Shut up! Listen!" They were mouse - still. "I thought I heard a -  - a   sort of knocking," said the bull.

"What was it like?" asked the sheep faintly.

No answer.

The bee gave a shudder. "Whatever did we shut the door for?" she said   softly. Oh, why, why had they shut the door?

While they were playing, the day had faded; the gorgeous sunset had   blazed and died. And now the quick dark came racing over the sea, over   the sand - hills, up the field. You were frightened to look in the   corners of the washhouse, and yet you had to look with all your might.   And somewhere, far away, grandma was lighting a lamp. The blinds   were being pulled down; the kitchen fire leapt in the tins on the   mantelpiece.

"It would be awful now," said the bull, "if a spider was to fall from   the ceiling on to the table, wouldn't it?"

"Spiders don't fall from ceilings."

"Yes, they do. Our Min told us she'd seen a spider as big as a saucer,   with long hairs on it."

Quickly all the little heads were jerked up; all the little bodies drew   together, pressed together.

"Why doesn't somebody come and call us?" cried the rooster.

Oh, those grown - ups, laughing and snug, sitting in the lamp - light,   drinking out of cups! They'd forgotten about them. No, not really   forgotten. That was what their smile meant. They had decided to leave   them there all by themselves.

Suddenly Lottie gave such a piercing scream that all of them jumped off   the forms, all of them screamed too. "A face -  - a face looking!" shrieked   Lottie.

It was true, it was real. Pressed against the window was a pale face,   black eyes, a black beard.

"Grandma! Mother! Somebody!"

But they had not got to the door, tumbling over one another, before it   opened for Uncle Jonathan. He had come to take the little boys home.

   X.

He had meant to be there before, but in the front garden he had come   upon Linda walking up and down the grass, stopping to pick off a dead   pink or give a top - heavy carnation something to lean against, or to take   a deep breath of something, and then walking on again, with her little   air of remoteness. Over her white frock she wore a yellow, pink - fringed   shawl from the Chinaman's shop.

"Hallo, Jonathan!" called Linda. And Jonathan whipped off his shabby   panama, pressed it against his breast, dropped on one knee, and kissed   Linda's hand.

"Greeting, my Fair One! Greeting, my Celestial Peach Blossom!" boomed   the bass voice gently. "Where are the other noble dames?"

"Beryl's out playing bridge and mother's giving the boy his bath... Have   you come to borrow something?"

The Trouts were for ever running out of things and sending across to the   Burnells' at the last moment.

But Jonathan only answered, "A little love, a little kindness;" and he   walked by his sister - in - law's side.

Linda dropped onto the ground under the manuka - tree, and Jonathan   stretched himself on the grass beside her, pulled a long stalk and began   chewing it. They knew each other well. The voices of children cried from   the other gardens. A fisherman's light cart shook along the sandy road,   and from far away they heard a dog barking; it was muffled as though the   dog had its head in a sack. If you listened you could just hear the soft   swish of the sea at full tide sweeping the pebbles. The sun was sinking.

"And so you go back to the office on Monday, do you, Jonathan?" asked   Linda.

"On Monday the cage door opens and clangs to upon the victim for another   eleven months and a week," answered Jonathan.

Linda swung a little. "It must be awful," she said slowly.

"Would ye have me laugh, my fair sister? Would ye have me weep?"

Linda was so accustomed to Jonathan's way of talking that she paid no   attention to it.

"I suppose," she said vaguely, "one gets used to it. One gets used to   anything."

"Does one? Hum!" The "Hum" was so deep it seemed to boom from underneath   the ground. "I wonder how it's done," brooded Jonathan; "I've never   managed it."

Looking at him as he lay there, Linda thought again how attractive he   was. It was strange to think that he was only an ordinary clerk, that   Stanley earned twice as much money as he. What was the matter with   Jonathan? He had no ambition; she supposed that was it. And yet one felt   he was gifted, exceptional. He was passionately fond of music; every   spare penny he had went on books. He was always full of new ideas,   schemes, plans. But nothing came of it all. The new fire blazed in   Jonathan; you almost heard it roaring softly as he explained, described   the new thing; but a moment later it had fallen in and   there was nothing but ashes, and Jonathan went about with a look like   hunger in his black eyes. At these times he exaggerated his absurd   manner of speaking, and he sang in church -  - he was the leader of the   choir -  - with such fearful dramatic intensity that the meanest hymn put on   an unholy splendour.

"It seems to me just as stupid, just as infuriating, to have to go to the   office on Monday," said Jonathan, "as it always has done and always will   do. To spend all the best years of one's life sitting on a stool from   nine to five, scratching in somebody's ledger! It's a queer use to make   of one's... one and only life, isn't it? Or do I fondly dream?" He   rolled over on the grass and looked up at Linda. "Tell me, what is the   difference between my life and that of an ordinary prisoner. The only   difference I can see is that I put myself in jail and nobody's ever   going to let me out. That's a more intolerable situation than the other.   For if I'd been -  - pushed in, against my will -  - kicking, even -  - once the   door was locked, or at any rate in five years or so, I might have   accepted the fact and begun to take an interest in the flight of   flies or counting the prison-keeper's steps along the passage with particular   attention to variations of tread and so on. But as it is, I'm like an   insect that's flown into a room of its own accord. I dash against the   walls, dash against the windows, flop against the ceiling, do everything   on God's earth, in fact, except fly out again. And all the while I'm   thinking, like that moth, or that butterfly, or whatever it is, 'The   shortness of life! The shortness of life!' I've only one night or   one day, and there's this vast dangerous garden, waiting out there,   undiscovered, unexplored."

"But, if you feel like that, why -  - " began Linda quickly.

"Ah!" cried Jonathan. And that "ah!" was somehow almost exultant.   "There you have me. Why? Why indeed? There's the maddening, mysterious   question. Why don't I fly out again? There's the window or the door or   whatever it was I came in by. It's not hopelessly shut -  - is it? Why don't   I find it and be off? Answer me that, little sister." But he gave her no   time to answer.

"I'm exactly like that insect again. For some reason" -  - Jonathan paused   between the words -  - "it's not allowed, it's forbidden, it's against the   insect law, to stop banging and flopping and crawling up the pane even   for an instant. Why don't I leave the office? Why don't I seriously   consider, this moment, for instance, what it is that prevents me   leaving? It's not as though I'm tremendously tied. I've two boys to   provide for, but, after all, they're boys. I could cut off to sea, or   get a job up - country, or -  - " Suddenly he smiled at Linda and said in   a changed voice, as if he were confiding a secret, "Weak... weak. No   stamina. No anchor. No guiding principle, let us call it." But then the   dark velvety voice rolled out:

     "Would ye hear the story         How it unfolds itself... "

and they were silent.

The sun had set. In the western sky there were great masses of   crushed - up rose - coloured clouds. Broad beams of light shone through the   clouds and beyond them as if they would cover the whole sky. Overhead   the blue faded; it turned a pale gold, and the bush outlined against   it gleamed dark and brilliant like metal. Sometimes when those beams of   light show in the sky they are very awful. They remind you that up there   sits Jehovah, the jealous God, the Almighty, Whose eye is upon you, ever   watchful, never weary. You remember that at His coming the whole earth   will shake into one ruined graveyard; the cold, bright angels will drive   you this way and that, and there will be no time to explain what could   be explained so simply... But to - night it seemed to Linda there was   something infinitely joyful and loving in those silver beams. And now   no sound came from the sea. It breathed softly as if it would draw that   tender, joyful beauty into its own bosom.

"It's all wrong, it's all wrong," came the shadowy voice of Jonathan.   "It's not the scene, it's not the setting for... three stools, three   desks, three inkpots and a wire blind."

Linda knew that he would never change, but she said, "Is it too late,   even now?"

"I'm old -  - I'm old," intoned Jonathan. He bent towards her, he passed his   hand over his head. "Look!" His black hair was speckled all over with   silver, like the breast plumage of a black hen.

Linda was surprised. She had no idea that he was grey. And yet, as he   stood up beside her and sighed and stretched, she saw him, for the first   time, not resolute, not gallant, not careless, but touched already with   age. He looked very tall on the darkening grass, and the thought crossed   her mind, "He is like a weed."

Jonathan stooped again and kissed her fingers.

"Heaven reward thy sweet patience, lady mine," he murmured. "I must go   seek those heirs to my fame and fortune... " He was gone.

   XI.

Light shone in the windows of the bungalow. Two square patches of gold   fell upon the pinks and the peaked marigolds. Florrie, the cat, came   out on to the veranda, and sat on the top step, her white paws close   together, her tail curled round. She looked content, as though she had   been waiting for this moment all day.

"Thank goodness, it's getting late," said Florrie. "Thank goodness, the   long day is over." Her green eyes opened.

Presently there sounded the rumble of the coach, the crack of Kelly's   whip. It came near enough for one to hear the voices of the men from   town, talking loudly together. It stopped at the Burnells' gate.

Stanley was half - way up the path before he saw Linda. "Is that you,   darling?"

"Yes, Stanley."

He leapt across the flower - bed and seized her in his arms. She was   folded in that familiar, eager, strong embrace.

"Forgive me, darling, forgive me," stammered Stanley, and he put his   hand under her chin and lifted her face to him.

"Forgive you?" smiled Linda. "But whatever for?"

"Good God! You can't have forgotten," cried Stanley Burnell. "I've   thought of nothing else all day. I've had the hell of a day. I made up   my mind to dash out and telegraph, and then I thought the wire mightn't   reach you before I did. I've been in tortures, Linda."

"But, Stanley," said Linda, "what must I forgive you for?"

"Linda!" -  - Stanley was very hurt -  - "didn't you realize -  - you must have   realized -  - I went away without saying good - bye to you this morning? I   can't imagine how I can have done such a thing. My confounded temper, of   course. But -  - well" -  - and he sighed and took her in his arms again -  - "I've   suffered for it enough to - day."

"What's that you've got in your hand?" asked Linda. "New gloves? Let me   see."

"Oh, just a cheap pair of wash - leather ones," said Stanley humbly. "I   noticed Bell was wearing some in the coach this morning, so, as I   was passing the shop, I dashed in and got myself a pair. What are you   smiling at? You don't think it was wrong of me, do you?"

"On the contrary, darling," said Linda, "I think it was most sensible."

She pulled one of the large, pale gloves on her own fingers and looked   at her hand, turning it this way and that. She was still smiling.

Stanley wanted to say, "I was thinking of you the whole time I bought   them." It was true, but for some reason he couldn't say it. "Let's go   in," said he.

   XII.

Why does one feel so different at night? Why is it so exciting to be   awake when everybody else is asleep? Late -  - it is very late! And yet   every moment you feel more and more wakeful, as though you were slowly,   almost with every breath, waking up into a new, wonderful, far more   thrilling and exciting world than the daylight one. And what is this   queer sensation that you're a conspirator? Lightly, stealthily you move   about your room. You take something off the dressing - table and put it   down again without a sound. And everything, even the bed - post, knows   you, responds, shares your secret...

You're not very fond of your room by day. You never think about it.   You're in and out, the door opens and slams, the cupboard creaks. You   sit down on the side of your bed, change your shoes and dash out again.   A dive down to the glass, two pins in your hair, powder your nose and   off again. But now -  - it's suddenly dear to you. It's a darling little   funny room. It's yours. Oh, what a joy it is to own things! Mine -  - my   own!

"My very own for ever?"

"Yes." Their lips met.

No, of course, that had nothing to do with it. That was all nonsense   and rubbish. But, in spite of herself, Beryl saw so plainly two people   standing in the middle of her room. Her arms were round his neck; he   held her. And now he whispered, "My beauty, my little beauty!"   She jumped off her bed, ran over to the window and kneeled on the   window - seat, with her elbows on the sill. But the beautiful night, the   garden, every bush, every leaf, even the white fence posts, even the stars,   were conspirators too. So bright was the moon that the flowers were   bright as by day; the shadow of the nasturtiums, exquisite lily - like   leaves and wide - open flowers, lay across the silvery veranda. The   manuka - tree, bent by the southerly winds, was like a bird on one leg   stretching out a wing.

But when Beryl looked at the bush, it seemed to her the bush was sad.

"We are dumb trees, reaching up in the night, imploring we know not   what," said the sorrowful bush.

It is true when you are by yourself and you think about life, it is   always sad. All that excitement and so on has a way of suddenly leaving   you, and it's as though, in the silence, somebody called your name, and   you heard your name for the first time. "Beryl!"

"Yes, I'm here. I'm Beryl. Who wants me?"

"Beryl!"

"Let me come."

It is lonely living by oneself. Of course, there are relations, friends,   heaps of them; but that's not what she means. She wants some one who   will find the Beryl they none of them know, who will expect her to be   that Beryl always. She wants a lover.

"Take me away from all these other people, my love. Let us go far away.   Let us live our life, all new, all ours, from the very beginning. Let us   make our fire. Let us sit down to eat together. Let us have long talks   at night."

And the thought was almost, "Save me, my love. Save me!"

... "Oh, go on! Don't be so conventional, my dear. You enjoy yourself while   you're young. That's my advice." And a high rush of silly laughter   joined Mrs. Harry Kember's loud, indifferent laugh.

You see, it's so frightfully difficult when you've nobody. You're so   at the mercy of things. You can't just be rude. And you've always this   horror of seeming inexperienced and stuffy like the other silly women at the   Bay. And -  - and it's fascinating to know you've power over people. Yes,   that is fascinating...

Oh why, oh why doesn't "he" come soon?

If I go on living here, thought Beryl, anything may happen to me.

"But how do you know he is coming at all?" mocked a small voice within   her.

But Beryl dismissed it. She couldn't be left. Other people, perhaps, but   not she. It wasn't possible to think that Beryl Fairfield never married,   that lovely fascinating girl.

"Do you remember Beryl Fairfield?"

"Remember her! As if I could forget her! It was one summer at the   Bay that I saw her. She was standing on the beach in a blue" -  - no,   pink -  - "frock, holding on a big cream" -  - no, black -  - "straw hat. But   it's years ago now."

"She's as lovely as ever, more so if anything."

Beryl smiled, bit her lip, and gazed over the garden. As she gazed, she   saw somebody, a man, leave the road, step along the field beside their   fence as if he was coming straight towards her. Her heart beat. Who   was it? Who could it be? It couldn't be a burglar, certainly not a   burglar, for he was smoking and he strolled lightly. Beryl's heart   leapt; it seemed to turn right over, and then to stop. She recognized   him.

"Good evening, Miss Beryl," said the voice softly.

"Good evening."

"Won't you come for a little walk?" it drawled.

Come for a walk -  - at that time of night! "I couldn't. Everybody's in bed.   Everybody's asleep."

"Oh," said the voice lightly, and a whiff of sweet smoke reached her.   "What does everybody matter? Do come! It's such a fine night. There's   not a soul about."

Beryl shook her head. But already something stirred in her, something   reared its head.

The voice said, "Frightened?" It mocked, "Poor little girl!"

"Not in the least," said she. As she spoke that weak thing within her   seemed to uncoil, to grow suddenly tremendously strong; she longed to   go!

And just as if this was quite understood by the other, the voice said,   gently and softly, but finally, "Come along!"

Beryl stepped over her low window, crossed the veranda, ran down the   grass to the gate. He was there before her.

"That's right," breathed the voice, and it teased, "You're not   frightened, are you? You're not frightened?"

She was; now she was here she was terrified, and it seemed to her   everything was different. The moonlight stared and glittered; the   shadows were like bars of iron. Her hand was taken.

"Not in the least," she said lightly. "Why should I be?"

Her hand was pulled gently, tugged. She held back.

"No, I'm not coming any farther," said Beryl.

"Oh, rot!" Harry Kember didn't believe her. "Come along! We'll just go   as far as that fuchsia bush. Come along!"

The fuchsia bush was tall. It fell over the fence in a shower. There was   a little pit of darkness beneath.

"No, really, I don't want to," said Beryl.

For a moment Harry Kember didn't answer. Then he came close to her,   turned to her, smiled and said quickly, "Don't be silly! Don't be   silly!"

His smile was something she'd never seen before. Was he drunk? That   bright, blind, terrifying smile froze her with horror. What was she   doing? How had she got here? the stern garden asked her as the gate   pushed open, and quick as a cat Harry Kember came through and snatched   her to him.

"Cold little devil! Cold little devil!" said the hateful voice.

But Beryl was strong. She slipped, ducked, wrenched free.

"You are vile, vile," said she.

"Then why in God's name did you come?" stammered Harry Kember.

Nobody answered him.

   XIII.

A cloud, small, serene, floated across the moon. In that moment of   darkness the sea sounded deep, troubled. Then the cloud sailed away,   and the sound of the sea was a vague murmur, as though it woke out of a   dark dream. All was still.



   
