Chapter: <CHAPTER>
1. AT THE BAY. Chapter 1.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 paddocks
and bungalows began. The sandy road was gone and the paddocks 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 waked 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 twig 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 pattering. 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 a frieze coat that was covered with a
web of tiny drops, velvet trousers tied under the knee, and a wide-awake
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 fluting that sounded mournful and tender. The old
dog cut an ancient caper or two and then drew up sharp, ashamed of his
levity, and walked a few dignified paces by his master's side. The sheep
ran forward in little pattering rushes; they began to bleat, 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 palings. 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 whiff of eucalyptus.
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 from the shallow plain, 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 tabby head, and seemed to give a
little fastidious shiver. "Ugh! What a coarse, revolting creature!" said
Florrie. But the old sheep-dog, not looking up, waggled 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 tiptop of a spray, it turned to the sun, ruffling its small breast
feathers. And now they had passed the fisherman's hut, passed the
charred-looking little whare 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 straightway 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.


Chapter 1.II.

A few moments later the back door of one of the bungalows opened, and a
figure in a broad-striped bathing suit flung down the paddock, cleared
the stile, rushed through the tussock grass into the hollow, staggered
up the sandy hillock, 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 souse 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 barging over to
this exact spot? Stanley gave a kick, a lunge and struck out, swimming
overarm. 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 piffle
about a dream he'd had, or some cranky 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 waterspout. 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
unpractical 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.


Chapter 1.III.

Beryl was alone in the living-room when Stanley appeared, wearing a blue
serge 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
knickers; their brown legs were bare, and each had her hair plaited
and 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 nasturtiums. 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 coatee.

"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 paddock 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.


Chapter 1.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 stile by herself. When she stood on the
first step 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 paddock still and half in the
tussock 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 stiles, aren't I, Kezia?"

Lottie's was a very hopeful nature.

The pink and the blue sunbonnet followed Isabel's bright red sunbonnet
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, gesticulating largely with their
spades, they looked like minute puzzled explorers.

The whole family of Samuel Josephs was there already with their
lady-help, 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 "brogramme" every morning to keep them "abused and out of
bischief." It was all competitions or races or round games. Everything
began with a piercing blast of the lady-help's whistle and ended with
another. There were even prizes--large, rather dirty paper parcels which
the lady-help 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 pinchers. 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 washhand basin of
very brown fruit-salad, buns cut into four and a washhand jug full of
something the lady-help 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 open-work pinafore, 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 knickers rolled up, twinkled like spiders. One was digging,
the other pattered 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 straight dinkum."

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 a nemeral," 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
a nemeral in a ring, but it was a very small one. This one was as big as
a star and far more beautiful.


Chapter 1.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, an old whiskery one, came lolloping 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
fast. 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 an impudent 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, bloody, and still with a cigarette stuck in the corner of her
mouth.

Mrs. Kember rose, yawned, unsnapped 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 short white petticoat, and her camisole with
ribbon bows on the shoulders.

"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
petticoat. Really--her underclothes! A pair of blue cotton knickers and
a linen bodice that reminded one somehow of a pillow-case... "And you
don't wear stays, do you?" She touched Beryl's waist, and Beryl sprang
away with a small affected cry. Then "Never!" she said firmly.

"Lucky little creature," sighed Mrs. Kember, unfastening her own.

Beryl turned her back and began the complicated movements of some one
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 ninnies." And she
gave her strange neighing 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 chemise 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.


Chapter 1.VI.

In a steamer 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 chinks 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, uncovered. 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 every one 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 any one--she--was not being dead
straight, dead 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.


Chapter 1.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 laved 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, velvet anemones, and orange
berry-spotted weeds. 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 paddock, 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 pawa 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 siesta together. The little
girl, wearing only her short drawers and her under-bodice, 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 a sprigged muslin petticoat, 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 sea-pinks, 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 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 a sunstroke 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 waggled the 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.


Chapter 1.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 leghorn turned up under
the brim with poppies. Of course she wore gloves, white ones, stained
at the fastenings with iron-mould, and in one hand she carried a very
dashed-looking sunshade which she referred to as her "perishall."

Beryl, sitting in the window, fanning her freshly-washed hair, thought
she had never seen such a guy. 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 larrikin 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 mosquitoes.

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

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 hillock 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 rakishly
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 by four gelatine lozenges, there
was--and there had been from time immemorial--a notice.

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

Alice pressed open the door. The bell jangled, the red serge curtains
parted, and Mrs. Stubbs appeared. With her broad smile and the long
bacon knife in her hand, she looked like a friendly brigand. 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 Primus 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 photers 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
dozzing 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 Primus stove died
down, fizzled out, 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 enlargemint. All very well for Christmas
cards, but I never was the one for small photers myself. You get no
comfort out of them. To say the truth, I find them dis'eartening."

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 larst. Many's the time they drawn one and a half
pints from 'im at the 'ospital... It seemed like a judgmint."

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 meaningly, "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 mutting
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 frizzy 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 titter. She felt awkward. Her
mind flew back to her own kitching. Ever so queer! She wanted to be back
in it again.


Chapter 1.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 cobwebs, 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 a ninseck."

"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.

"A ninseck 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 pinny thrown over her
head, 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 paddock. 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 like a gooseberry."

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.


Chapter 1.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 into Beryl's hammock 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
and dilated on 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 imbecile, just as infernal, 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 warder'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 fowl.

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.


Chapter 1.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 greengage 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
enfolded 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 con-trary, 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.


Chapter 1.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 palings, 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 a prude, 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 neigh.

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 ninnies 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--"muslin 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 paddock beside their
palings 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.


Chapter 1.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 waked out of a
dark dream. All was still.




</CHAPTER>

 I The whole of Crescents Bay was hidden under a white sea mist, the beach barely distinguishable from the waters beyond. The sun had not yet risen but over the horizon a flock of sheep came into view. A shepherd and his companion, Wag the dog, led them. The shepherd was a tall older gentleman with a yellow walking stick and a pipe. He whistled as Wag corralled the bleating heard onto a sandy road and toward a gigantic gum tree near Mrs. Stubb's show. Squinting his eyes against the rising sun, the shepherd marveled at how quickly the mist on the sea receded each morning. " leaping, glittering sea was so bright it made one's eyes ache to look at it" . The Burnell's cat, Florrie, appeared. She spotted Wag and gave a disgruntled shiver. He ignored her but thought her a silly young thing. A bird flew above the shepherd's head, past the fisherman's hut and the little house owned by the milkmaid, Leila, and her Gran. The sheep began to stray but Wag rounded them up again and led them toward Daylight Cove. The shepherd trailed after and out of sight. II Moments later the back door of a nearby bungalow opened and Stanley Burnell appeared. He ran to the sea and dived in. It was his usual custom each morning, to be the fist in the water. A voice called out to him and Stanley was very displeased to see the head of Jonathan Trout bobbing in the water nearby. He had beaten Stanley into the water. Annoyed that Jonathan refused to stick to his own part of the sea, Stanly struck out, swimming as far away as he could. Jonathan kept up with him and began to tell Stanley about a strange dream he had had the night before. "What was the matter with the man? This mania for conversation irritated Stanley beyond words" . Stanley interrupted Jonathan and said he was on a tight schedule that morning and didn't have time to talk. Unperturbed, Jonathan glided away. Stanley left the water and returned to the beach and his bungalow feeling he had been cheated out of his morning bathe. Jonathan stayed it the water and watched Stanley leave. Overall he was fond of the other man but thought Stanley often overdid things, making everything into a job. Jonathan preferred an uncomplicated existence. He floated on his back, letting the waves take him to shore. Once on the beach Jonathan began to shiver, his body ached all over. He had stayed too long in the water and felt his bathe had been ruined too. III Beryl Fairchild was alone in the living room when her brother -in-law, Stanley Burnell sat down at the table and announced that he had twenty-five minutes before his coach arrived to take him into town for work. Beryl poured his tea but forgot to add sugar. Stanley looked up at his sister-in-law skeptically and asked for sugar. Instead of putting it in his tea as she normally would, Beryl pushed the sugar bowl toward him. Perplexed by her behavior, Stanley asked if there was anything wrong. Beryl said there wasn't. Her mother, Mrs. Fairfield, came in carrying Stanley's youngest child, a baby boy. Stanley's three little girls, Isabel, Kezia, and Lottie followed her. They carried the porridge tray and set it down carefully on the table. Mrs. Fairfield reported that the baby had only woken up once in the night and declared that today was a perfect day. The sea sounded through the open windows, the sun shone on the table and everything sparkled and glistened. Mrs. Fairfield felt deeply contented. Stanley interrupted her thoughts by asking for a slice of bread. Then Beryl scolded Kezia for playing with her food and Stanley couldn't find his walking stick and blamed everyone but himself for losing it. Even Alice, the maid, came out of the kitchen to look for it and Stanley accused her of using it to poke the fire. Still searching Stanley made his way into his bedroom where his wife, Linda, was lying down. He told her the children had taken his stick. Upset by Linda's vague response and lack of interest, he did not say goodbye to her as punishment for not paying attention to him. Beryl called out to him that the coach had arrived, and Stanley went to meet it. As he boarded he thought of the heartlessness of woman and how they took it for granted that men would provide for them but they didn't have the decency to keep his walking stick from disappearing. Beryl called out a farewell to him and out of politeness Stanley returned the gesture. He caught Beryl's little skip of joy as she ran into the house. Back at the bungalow, Beryl announce with glee "He's gone!" and the house came to life with renewed feminine energy. "Oh, the relief, the difference it made to have the man out of the house. Their voices changed as they called to one another; they sounded warm and loving... There was no man to disturb them; the whole perfect day was theirs" . Alice, caught up in the moment, pretended the teapot she was washing was a man and cheerfully drowned him in the sink. IV Little Lottie called out to her older sisters, Isabel and Kezia, and asked them to wait for her. Lottie always had trouble climbing over the stile on their way to the beach. Kezia kindly went back and helped Lottie over. The three sisters stood at the top of a sand hill and discussed who they should play with today. The Samuel Josephs were an unruly bunch of young boys and girls who were looked after by a servant who made up games to keep them occupied. The servant wore a whistle around her neck and used it to call the Samuel Josephs together or to start or stop a game. Their playtime was always fiercely competitive and the only game the three Burnell sisters had ever played with them Kezia had won. Her prize had been an old rusted boot hook. Since then the Burnells no longer associated with the Samuel Josephs, finding their prizes and manners lacking. Thankfully the sisters spotted their cousins, Jonathan Trout's sons, Pip and Rags, on the other side of the beach. They made their way toward them and saw that Pip was digging in the sand for treasure and Rags was pouring water onto the sand to keep it moist for his brother. Pip proudly showed the girls a boot he discovered while Rags dutifully ran back forth between his brother and the sea with his water bucket. Perhaps sensing his cousins were less than impressed with the boot, Pip took from his pocket a large green stone and held it out to them, making them promise they would never tell anyone that he had it. The beautiful stone was in fact an emerald, or, as Pip called it, a "nemeral." It seemed to dance in Pip's hand. V It was understood among the residents of Crescent Bay that the beaches at eleven o'clock belonged to the women and children. First the women undressed and put on bathing dresses and then the children were unbuttoned and let loose. The beach was strewn with piles of clothes and hats. Mrs. Fairfield gathered her grandchildren and watched as her grandsons, Pip and Rags, whipped off their shirts and ran into the sea. Her little granddaughters were not as brave. Isabel and Kezia swam out carefully toward the boys but little Lottie remained on the beach and sat by the edge of the water. She made vague gestures with her hands as if she expected the sea to take her away at anytime but whenever there was a large wave she would scamper up the beach, away from the water. Beryl arrived and asked her mother to hold her jewelry while she bathed. She said she was going to bathe with Mrs. Harry Kember and ignored her mother's disapproving look. She made her way to a different section of the beach and soon saw her friend lounging on the rocks and smoking. Mrs. Harry Kember was the only woman in Crescent Bay who smoked and was very unpopular among the other women as a result. She was a strange looking woman with a narrow hands and feet, her face was thin and always looked exhausted. Mrs. Harry Kember spent her days lying in the sun and playing cards but it was her lack of vanity and her tendencies to act more like a man than a woman that really set the women of Crescent Bay against her. Beryl thought herself the exception but when Mrs. Harry Kember undressed before her even Beryl could not excuse the state of the other woman's underclothes. Then there was Mr. Harry Kember himself, who was so handsome his face looked painted on. No one understood their marriage. She was almost ten years older than him and childless. Mr. Harry Kember was a quiet fellow that did not get on well with other men. Rumor had it that he was unfaithful to his wife and perhaps that was why he ignored her strange behavior and sloppy housekeeping. Their marriage was a mystery to everyone else but Beryl suspected there was more to them than the obvious. Crescent Bay; however, had long ago determined that one day Mr. Harry Kember would murder his wife and they would find her lifeless body still with a cigarette in her mouth. Mrs. Harry Kember was very much alive today and was just telling Beryl what a beauty she had become. Beryl began the complicated process of taking off her clothes while at the same time putting on her bathing dress. Mrs. Harry Kember simply dropped her outerwear without a hint of self-consciousness and encouraged Beryl to do the same. Feeling devilish, Beryl took off her clothes in from of Mrs. Harry Kember and put on her bathing dress. "Really, it's a sin for you to wear clothes, my dear. Somebody's got to tell you some day" , Mrs. Harry Kember said, complementing Beryl's beauty. They walked together into the warm water and Beryl stretched her arms out luxuriously, allowing the waves to lift her up. Mrs. Harry Kember swam beside her all the while encouraging her not settle for just one man, to have a good time while she was young. Beryl felt sinful listening to such talk but also very curious. Mrs. Harry Kember swam closer and for one horrible moment Beryl thought the other woman with her black bathing cap, looked like a disturbing caricature of her husband, Mr. Harry Kember. VI Linda Burnell lounged in a steamer chair under the manuka tree in the front yard of the bungalow. She sat and contemplated the life of the flowers that fell from the tree. She thought of how beautifully intricate they were and how easy it was to disregard them as simply something that should be kept off the lawn. "Who takes the trouble - or the joy- to make all these things that are wasted...." . She thought it uncanny. On the lawn beside her, situated between two pillows, was the baby. He was asleep and Linda had the bungalow all to herself. She wished she had time to look and truly appreciate each flower but she knew Life would come along and interrupt her day. It always did and there was no escape. Years before she was married she remembered sitting on the veranda with her father. They had been very close. He always said they would run away one day, just the two of them but then Stanley Burnell walked by, slowly and solemnly, his ginger hair aglow. Her father teased her and called Stanley her beau. At the time Linda couldn't have imagined being married especially to someone like Stanley Burnell but married they were. She loved him, most of the time. She didn't love the Stanley everyone else saw. Her Stanley was timid, he said is prayers in earnest and believed in others with his whole heart and was never disloyal but she so rarely saw her Stanley anymore. She only had glimpses of him every so often. Usually he was in the thick of whatever daily drama was taking place and she spent all of her time calming him down, listening to his side of the story, and rescuing him from himself. "And what was left of her was spent in the dread of having children" . It was her greatest grudge against life. She knew it was a woman's lot to birth children, to carry them for months and then bring them whole into the world but afterward she found that she did not love her children in the way that she should. The burden of too many births had weakened her and she had nothing left to give the girls. Thankfully her mother had taken the boy and as far as Linda was concerned, she could have him. Linda was so indifferent about the new baby -- she had hardly ever held him in her arms. Glancing down she was surprised to see the boy was awake. His dark-blue eyes were fixed on her and he suddenly smiled, his dimples showing. His happy smile called out to his mother for love, and she found herself returning the smile. She sat down on the grass beside him. She said that she didn't like babies and if he knew what she was thinking about him he would stop smiling but the boy only turned his head and squinted his eyes. Linda was astonished by the baby's confidence, his demand of her love that she felt something inside of her shift, making room, and a tear slide down her face. "Hello my funny" she said but the boy had already forgotten about his mother. His eyes were fixated on the tree's falling flowers, and he shot his hand out to grab one. VII The sun warmed the beach as the day wore on. Only the sand hoppers moved. The rock pools rippled in the ocean breeze, a smaller world unknown to man. The scent of seaweed was strong under the hot lazy sun. The blinds were drawn over the windows of the bungalow. Kezia and her grandmother were taking their afternoon siesta. Her grandmother's room was a small with shabby furniture. Kezia lay on the bed in her underclothes and was watching her grandmother knit in a chair on the other side of the room. Kezia asked her grandmother why she was staring at the wall. Her grandmother hesitated, winding the wool around her fingers before answering that she was thinking of her son, William. Kezia knew him as the uncle from Australia that she had never met. Grandmother said he went there to work in the mines but got sunstroke and died. Kezia asked her grandmother if she was sad and Mrs. Fairfield took a moment to consider the question. It had happened so long ago but she carried her love for her son still as women are meant to do but time had helped to heal that wound. She told Kezia, no, she was not sad. Kezia asked why Uncle William died? He wasn't old. Her grandmother said that everyone dies eventually. Kezia was upset and said she would not die. Her grandmother said again that everyone dies and they have no choice in the matter. To this Kezia grew deeply upset and forbad her grandmother from dying, ever. "You couldn't leave me. You couldn't not be there... Promise me you won't ever do it, grandma" . The old woman was silent. Kezia cried out to her "say never" but still her grandmother would not speak. So Kezia climbed onto her grandmothers' lap and tickled and kissed the old woman until she promised not to die. They hugged and laughed and soon forgot their melancholy. VIII The backdoor of the Burnell's slammed shut and a flamboyantly dressed Alice walked down the path and away from the bungalow. Beryl watched Alice leave and thought the maid was on her way to meet some local man. She thought they'd have a hard time of hiding a pregnancy on Alice, especially dressed like that. Alice was not meeting in a man. Mrs. Stubbs had invited her to tea; she had taken a liking to the maid. Alice wore a white cotton dress dotted with red spots, white shoes, and gloves. She completed the ensemble with a frayed umbrella. No one was on the road to greet her and she felt very silly walking alone. Alice thought someone must be watching her but she didn't want to turn around to check. Mrs. Stubb's shop was perched on a hill up the road. Bathing outfits hung on the veranda near a box of mismatched sandshoes. A very old sign in the window display read: "LOST! HANSOME GOLE BROOCH SOLID GOLD ON OR NEAR BEACH REWARD OFFERED" . Alice opened the door to the shop and a bell sounded as she entered. Mrs. Stubbs appeared and the two women went to the parlor and Alice tried to remember her manners. Tea was laid out and their conversation turned to a set of new photographs that Mrs. Stubbs had acquired. Alice thought they captured the essence of life but only said they were pretty when asked. Mrs. Stubbs was a collector of photographs; behind her were various images of a waterfalls, a Grecian pillar, and a white snowcapped mountain. Mrs. Stubbs said she was going to have the photos enlarged just as her husband would have done had he still be alive. He had died of dropsy years before. Mrs. Stubbs had a life-like bust made of her husband. Alice said he had a pleasant face and Mrs. Stubbs agreed but said although she loved her husband, she preferred her freedom. Alice had a sudden urge to return to her kitchen at the bungalow. IX A small company of animals gathered in the Burnell's washhouse to play cards. There was a bull, a rooster, a sheep, and a bee. The washhouse was set apart form the bungalow and the animals could make as much noise as they wanted without being interrupted. Pip was the bull, Isabel the rooster, Rags the sheep, Kezia the bee who had won her argument that bees were indeed animals because they made noise. The animals bellowed, clucked, bleated, and buzzed in preparation for their game. Lottie had the habit of forgetting what animal she was part way through their games and Kezia suggested she be a donkey because "hee-haw" was easy to say. Lottie was content with the choice and Pip explained the card game to her, which involved each of the players putting down a card at the same time. If two or more players put down matching cards the first to cry out their animals sound won the round. Pip was getting irritated with Lottie who was confused by the rules. Her bottom lip quivered and the other children rushed to comfort her before Lottie grew truly upset and would run away and be found sometime later crying in a corner with her dress pulled up over her head. To pacify her, Pip gave Lottie the first card off the top of the deck and Rags gave her a corner of his handkerchief, its other half was occupied by a starfish he was trying to tame. Pip handed out all of the cards and the game began. The bull charged the table in his excitement; the rooster flapped her wings and crowed while the bee buzzed. At one point Rags and Lottie put down two Kings at the same time but poor little Lottie forgot what animal she was and Rags won the hand. Later Kezia and Lottie put down the same cards and the other children silently pointed this out to Lottie until she cried out "hee-haw!" Just then Pip thought he heard a knocking on the door and told the other children to be quiet. They sat still, listening and for the first time noticed they that night was coming on. Suddenly scared the children gathered close together and were worried a spider might fall on them from the ceiling. "Why doesn't someone come and get us," cried Isabel; then Lottie screamed and they all jumped. A face appeared in the window. Tumbling over one another they raced out the door and into Uncle Jonathan who had come to take the boys home with him. X Jonathan Trout had meant to take his sons home earlier in the day, but he had stopped to talk to his sister-in-law, Linda Burnell, who was in the garden. They had known each other a long time and Linda was no longer impressed with Jonathan's poetic introductions but still thought him handsome. He dropped to one knee in greeting and kissed her fingertips. She was used to this behavior and they settled in for a long conversation, she on a hammock and he on the grass. Linda asked if he was going back to work on Monday to which Jonathan replied that the cage door would shut on him at the end of the weekend and there was no chance of escape. Linda thought it must be awful to be trapped in an office for so many hours and yet she felt one could adapt to the situation but not Jonathan. Jonathan had a wandering spirit and although he very ambitious and talented, he would rather spend his time reading poetry than working as a clerk and had never amounted to anything. Stanley made more money than he did and Linda wondered what was the matter with him? He was gifted but nothing ever came of it. She thought of him leading their church choir and of his hungry eyes that never seemed to rest and yet he made no effort to be anything more than what he was. Jonathan said it was ridiculous to have to spend one's life sitting on someone else's stool, working on someone else's ledger nine to five for years. "It is a queer use to make of one's...one and only life, isn't it?" and yet he felt like an insect who had wandered into a room from the outside of its own accord and spent the rest of its life banging against the window panes but never going through the open door and back out into the unexplored garden. He felt he was a prisoner in his own life and asked Linda why he didn't attempt to escape? Answering his own question, Jonathan said, "for some reason... it's not allowed, it's forbidden..." to quit his job and take off somewhere, out to sea perhaps. His two boys were his responsibility to provide for, but he could move up country and try his luck; but then, his voice faded and the light behind his eyes was gone. He had no stamina for such adventures anymore. "Would you hear the story. How it unfolds itself..." . The sun had set as broad beams of light covered the sky and Linda thought of Jehovah the jealous God who would one day return to earth and there would be no time left for explanations. The sea was silent and in the diminishing light of the sun the sky rested above them. Linda suddenly noticed how old Jonathan was looking these days and as if to prove this point he showed her how his hair was going gray. She saw him for the first time as he truly was, not gallant or resolute at all but like a weed. Jonathan stooped down and kissed her before setting off to find "those heirs to my fame and fortune...and he was gone" . XI Two gold patches of light shone on the Burnell's veranda where Florrie, the cat, sat with her paws together and tail curled under. She was content. "Thank goodness, the long day is over" she said. A coach rumbled by, stopping at the front gate. Stanley got out and ran toward Linda who was still in the garden. He took her in his arms and lifted her chin, asking for forgiveness, but Linda had no idea what she was to forgive him for. Slightly exasperated with his wife, Stanley explained he deeply regretted not having said goodbye to her this morning and had been in agony all day because of it. She smiled up at him and tugged at a pair of new gloves that he had bought himself earlier in the day. He said they were cheap pair but he had seen another man wearing them and bought himself a pair. He asked if she thought it was wrong of him to buy himself and she said "on the con-trary, darling" . Linda put them on and playfully modeled them for him. Stanley wanted to tell her he had been thinking of her when he bought them but he swallowed his words and ushered her inside the bungalow. XII Beryl thought the world a different place at night. It was getting late and yet she felt more alive with each passing hour. With every breath she thought she were "waking up into a new, wonderful, far more thrilling and exciting world than the daylight one" as if she and the night were conspirators sharing a secret. Even her room felt more alive and she found she enjoyed it more at nighttime. During the day it was a transitional place where she went when she needed to change clothes or powder her nose but at night it was dear to her and everything in it belonged to her. For a moment Beryl thought she saw a vision of herself and man in her room holding one another and kissing. She rushed to the window seat and sat down with her elbows on the sill, gazing outward. The moon shone so brightly that the flowers were illuminated as if it were day. The tress, the leaves, even the sad little bushes were all apart of her nightly conspiracy. Beryl felt suddenly sad looking at the bushes that reached skyward but would never be trees. "It is true when you are by yourself and you think about life, it is always sad" as if all of the excitement of the day has waned and only silence remains. Then a voice would sound and call Beryl's name as if for the first time, crying for her to let it in. She was lonely, always surrounded by family but truly alone. She wanted to belong to someone else, to find the Beryl that no one else knew or could understand. She wanted to become the Beryl she always suspected she was, a lover. "Save me my love. Save me!" The thought of Mrs. Harry Kember came to mind and her suggestion that Beryl enjoy herself with men while she was young. Even if she wanted to Beryl was at the mercy of her family's whims and societal norms. She felt she was such a "nobody" but was fascinated by Mrs. Harry Kember's suggestions. She wished her "somebody" would come soon to save her but a little voice deep inside of Beryl doubted this would ever happen. She refused to listen to the little voice: others may be left behind, but not her. Then she imagined the women of Crescent Bay speaking of her in years to come, saying she was still pretty, that there was still time for her to marry. Her heart sank. Then she saw a man walking nearby. He left the road and made his way through the Burnell garden and straight toward her. Beryl thought he couldn't be a burglar because he was smoking and strolling toward her in a leisurely way. It was Mr. Harry Kember. He invited her out for a walk. Beryl hesitated; it was late. Mr. Harry Kember insisted, saying there was no one else around. Something stirred within Beryl -- she wanted to go with him. "Don't be frightened," he said as she lowered herself out the window. The world was different now, the moonlight shone, the shadows like bars as Mr. Harry Kember took her hand in his. Now she was truly afraid. He tugged her hand gently but she struggled against him. "His terrifying smile froze her with horror" and he led her out the garden gate and drew her to him. Beryl slipped out of his embrace and told him he was vile. "Then why did you come?" He asked; nobody answered. A small cloud obscured the moon for a moment. The sea was troubled and then the cloud passed and it gave a mummer as if it woke from a bad dream. Then all was still.

