For the first time a faint doubt shot through the certainty of Katrine's conviction that all that was best worth having was for Martin past and over. A man of thirty-five, in the prime of health and vigour--was it natural, was it _right_, that his heart should remain buried in the grave of his girl wife? Loyalty would not allow Katrine to confess as much in words, but deep down in her heart she realised that her brother was growing yearly less loving, less lovable, more difficult to please.

Bereft of Juliet, thrown back upon himself, the best part of his nature was slowly atrophying from disuse.

Was the fault on his side or hers? Woman of twenty-six though she was, Katrine was curiously limited in her ideas on the great facts of life.

The Cranford cramp had laid its hand upon her, so that her judgments were made from the standpoint of convention, not fact. It never occurred to her to blame human nature for the fact that a brother and sister of mature age had failed to find completeness in a life together; instead, she peered anxiously into her own shortcomings of temper and tact, and laboriously built up resolutions.

"I must be more careful, more considerate. He has n.o.body but me."

She sighed, and this time the sigh was undisguisedly wistful in tone.

"If it were possible! If she could indeed be brave enough, fine enough, woman enough, to throw conventions to the winds, what a wonderful new interest might come into her life! The arrival of Dorothea's letters had made epochs in the week, but how much more--" She stopped short, aghast at the suggestion. How could the letters of a strange man be _more_ engrossing than those of the friend of years? Comparison between them was ridiculous. The whole proposition was preposterous and impossible. She would write at once, a firm and dignified rebuff.

Then suddenly, in the midst of her protests, Katrine caught sight of her own image gazing at her from a mirror across the room--a transformed image, youthful, glowing, incredibly alive. The eyes flashed, drooped with a guilty shame, then flashed again bright and defiant. She looked, and burst into a great peal of laughter; she threw out her arms with the gesture of one pushing aside imprisoning chains, advanced with a swaggering gait, and nodded defiance into the tell-tale gla.s.s.

"You're a fraud, Katrine Beverley; you're a fraud! It is all humbug and pretence, and you _know_ that it is. His letters _would_ be more interesting, just because he _is_ a man, who admires me, and wants--_things_--he can never have! And I'm _not_ sorry, I'm _glad_.

If it wasn't for Martin, I'd say yes.--I'd say it at once, I _want_ to say yes!"

Her face fell, she sighed despondently, then straightened herself, rea.s.sured.

"At any rate there is the box. In common decency I must write to thank him for the box!"

And meantime Martin was swinging along the country lanes, recalling the morning's conversation, and pondering for the hundredth time how he could best escape from the _impa.s.se_ of his life.

"Any other woman would have understood--would have realised that I _wanted_ to be alone, but the mischief of it is Katrine doesn't see, and I can't be brute enough to tell her in so many words. If she could be induced to take that Indian tour, we might start afresh after a year's absence. Or she might marry out there. She's a handsome girl, and would make a rattling wife,--to the right man! Poor old Katrine! I hope I did not show her too plainly... The furniture will have an extra polish this morning, and we shall have a superfine dinner, my favourite dishes,--an ice, and Angels on Horseback,--for a ducat we'll have them, and I shall buy her a box of chocolates on my way home... She tries her best, poor girl. So do I, for that matter, and that is the devil of it.

Effort! Effort!"

The air seemed black with clouds; the pain which long custom had dulled revived into throbbing life. He was racked with mental nausea: life stretched before him level, uneventful, intolerably dull. His very work was a mistake. Long months of effort, and struggle of spirit, and as a result a few patronising reviews, and a monetary reward, which, worked out on a time basis, approached a sweating wage. If he never wrote another line, should he be missed; would the world be a whit the poorer?

What was the sum total when all was told, but amus.e.m.e.nt for an idle hour!

It was in the depths of depression that Martin entered the golf club half an hour later, but on the threshold his good angel stood waiting.

His favourite partner, a retired civil servant, living in an adjoining village, stood within the pavilion and acclaimed him with delight; the most intelligent of caddies was at his disposal, and half-an-hour's play demonstrated the fact that the day was his.

By the end of two hours the vapours had disappeared beneath the combined influences of bracing air, congenial companionship, and a succession of long drives; and then as he climbed up the side of a heathery slope, suddenly, mysteriously, in the fashion known to all writers of fiction, inspiration flashed! The longed-for clue appeared, the tangles smoothed, the barren scene vibrated with life.

Martin stood still on the hill-side, and his lungs expanded with a deep, envious breath. Work! Work! The study table--the scattered leaves, the click of the typewriter; the barren hours, the hours when thoughts flew so fast that the pen could not keep pace,--each different phase of work rose before him, and each in its turn seemed good. His former lethargy disappeared. Useless? Valueless? Was it of no value to be one of the few writers who in a decadent age kept his pages clean? When so many streams ran foul, was it a light thing to provide a crystal well? And this last book should be the best he had written; stronger, deeper, more vital. Already in his own mind it was a living thing. He conceived a man, and lived in his image; he made unto him a wife. The two faces flashed at him out of the blue...

Ten minutes later, as he took up his position before a buried ball, Martin was telling himself briskly: "Hang it all, it's _true_! It _is_ my house. I can ask whom I like--"

CHAPTER FOUR.

"c.u.mly, _June_ 1, _19--_.

"Dear Captain Blair,

"As you say, I am bound in duty to thank you for the box.

"Considered as a box, it is a treasure indeed. It is so 'worthy' of my collection, that every other specimen looks in comparison poor and tawdry. I have placed it on a little pinnacle of its own, where it shines afar, leaving the lesser lights undimmed.

"Miss Beverley returns warm thanks to Captain Blair for his kindness in remembering her collection, and adding to it so valuable and antique a specimen.

"But--there remains Katrine, and Katrine's duty is so much more complicated! She has written, as you prophesied, four separate letters, all well spelt, and punctuated, and admirably composed, the sentences rounded to a marvel, but alas! each separate one said a different thing, and was afterwards torn up for a different reason.

"Number one was haughty and firm: firm, without a quaver of doubt.

'Miss Beverley was surprised that Captain Blair could suppose for a moment, that etc., etc.. Miss Beverley could certainly not consent to sacrifice the dignity and self-respect so dear to the heart of every true etc.'

"So far, so good, but Katrine here came to the conclusion that Miss Beverley was a hopeless prig, and effort number one was destroyed forthwith. Number two was also firm, but more affable in tone.

"Miss Beverley had been duly amused by the perusal of Captain Blair's letter. She realised that it had been written on the spur of an impulse, and that he had not intended his suggestion to be taken seriously. She would proceed to banish it from her mind, as she felt sure he would now wish her to do.

"Here again Katrine interfered, rated Miss Beverley as a hypocrite, declared that she believed nothing of the sort, and sent the second missive packing after the first.

"The third and fourth attempts were destroyed for--er--_other_ reasons!

One flies at times from one extreme to another. Here now beginning the fifth.

"If you are sure; if you are _quite_ sure that my letters would be a help, I should like to say yes, but conscience p.r.i.c.ks.--the Cranford conscience which sees not only straight ahead, but round every conceivable niche and corner.

"Take first your own point of view! Suppose a moment that I _did_ write, you might be horribly disappointed with my letters! You have enjoyed my weekly effusions to Dorothea, but you must remember that she and I are the friends of years, who have shared together all the big experiences of our lives, so that we have a thousand mutual links and interests. Also,--and the importance of this there is no denying--we are both women! When writing to Dorothea I can be just as frivolous, as morbid, as unreasonable as I please. She understands; she's been there herself. But no mere man--

"Suppose my letters were insufferably flat and tame, what a position for the Lonely Fellow to find himself bound to reply in kind! He ought seriously to consider this point.

"Then there's my own position, and with myself goes irrevocably Martin, my brother.

"Am I _quite_ justified in taking up any interest, which must more or less engross my thoughts, and distract them from what is my real life work?

"I am all that he has left. He turned to me in his trouble, and I must always put him first. It's not the easiest thing in the world to live with a literary man. The readers who praise his books and gush over his lofty sentiments, would be surprised if they could live in the house for a week, and listen to his flow of language over such a trifle, as, say, a banging door! For the last eight years all my time, and all my thought, have been devoted to the effort of pleasing Martin, and,--(one can acknowledge things on paper more easily than in words!)--it isn't a brilliant success!

"I thought that it was; no! I didn't think at all, I just complacently took it for granted that he was very lucky to have me, and that I made him as happy and comfortable as he possibly could be under the circ.u.mstances, but just lately I've had an awakening.

"He _isn't_ happy; he isn't even content. I've been quite an efficient Martha, but the Mary role seems to have been neglected, and we are growing apart, rather than together. That must be stopped! I must give more thought to him; not less.

"I am all he has left. I should be false to my trust if I deliberately undertook anything which would separate me from Martin by so much as a thought.

"Are you fine enough, honest enough, _man_ enough, to acknowledge that I'm right, and to respect my decision?

"Lonely Man! I ought not to begin a regular correspondence with you.

Just occasionally, perhaps, I might write; for Christmas, or Easter, or your birthday, and to receive a letter in reply would make a break in my life, which as you so blightingly remark begins to show symptoms of 'cramp.' (How could my letters be 'so delightful' if they were 'cramped'?) The very first thing you must do is to explain just how, and in what way, you discern in me the fatal growth! I'm so down upon it in other people; I imagined myself so immaculately free! The least you can do is to warn me of the danger point, before the infection has time to spread.

"Also,--as the aim and object of the correspondence is that I should know your honourable self, let me in to some of the secrets which my photograph understands so well, and most of all, tell me what makes my eyes sorry? It seems a little hard to be shut out, when mere photographs see so much!

"Miss Beverley presents her compliments to Captain Blair. She finds it a very difficult thing to wind up a letter to a man whom she has never seen. Miss Beverley will be obliged if Captain Blair will therefore kindly consider this letter concluded in the manner which seems to him the most graceful and appropriate."

Katrine carried the letter to the post in her own hands, the address carefully turned inwards so as to be screened from the scrutiny of peering eyes. Although the distance from the house to the post-office was about an eighth of a mile, it was seldom that she could traverse it without being accosted at least three or four times. This morning, however, the ordinary gossip jarred upon every nerve; she realised with a shiver of distaste that upon previous occasions she had enjoyed these encounters, had looked forward to them as to one of the prized episodes in the day; had been moved to excitement when she herself possessed a tiny item of news to add to the general store. As she crossed the road to the post-office, she debated with herself as to the cause of her change of mind, and found it in the envelope clasped in her hand.

A real interest had come into her life, and in its presence she had no room for trivial make-believes. Until now, for eight long years, nothing had happened to reach the real heart of her, and make her feel.

Never, never once, a thrill, a surprise, a feeling that the great procession of life had halted to give her place, until one short week ago, when out of the void a voice had spoken, and across the world had come a challenge, an appeal! She, who owned little, was asked for much; at the moment when her own heart was starved, she was asked to fill another. The voice had called; all that was vital within her sang a reply.

The letter was held out in an extended hand, was pressed for one moment between tightening fingers, then dropped deep into the box. She stood motionless for a moment, overwhelmed by the irrevocability of the action, then turned aside with the feeling of one facing a new life.