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Grace pressed her throat tighter. He would leave the house, he would go back to the college. Her fingers were hurting her neck as she thought, "That is the last I will ever see of Stephen." She turned her head quickly and looked towards the door. Stephen. Oh, Stephen.

Slowly now her eyes turned on to the girls. Beatrice was staring at her, but Jane was looking at no-one, her head was sunk deep on to her chest and she was so still she might have been asleep on her feet. She looked back towards Beatrice and from the look on her face she could almost tell what she was thinking.

Beatrice's mind was moving rapidly as, fascinated, she stared at her mother. All these years she had had a lover, and he only a farm manager . and a mere farm-worker at one time; and now she wanted to say that this man was her father . and that Daddy hadn't been capable of giving a woman a child . it was shocking. And the things she had said were shocking, really shocking. Yet vaguely she understood the reason for her mother going off the rails, for she knew that life would be impossible without . it. It being the thing her mother had inferred her father had lacked. But she couldn't think of Andrew Maclntyre as her father, she never would be able to. It was awful, really awful, and the worst of it was Gerald knowing. Her mind touching on her husband, she thought bitterly, "He started all this.

He could have warned Andrew about the man, but no. " And she didn't believe he hadn't guessed her mother was the woman, he must have. He was getting his own back and all because he couldn't have the money.

She had been married to Gerald less than three years, but she knew her Gerald he was spiteful. But that had given her a shock too . there being no money. She couldn't take it in that her mother was broke and there was nothing to look forward to in the way of a legacy, and nothing for the child either. She looked her mother over now, at the quiet elegance of her dress, at the heavy diamond and ruby ring glinting on her finger. She looked a woman of means. Would she mind being poor? No . no, she knew somehow she wouldn't; she would be quite content in a cottage . the cottage . with him. She could not look at Andrew although she knew he was looking at her. Andrew, the superior spare-time gardener, whom her mother liked to refer to as a friend of the family, was one person, a likeable person, but when he turned into your father that made him into another person, a detestable person. She hated him, almost as much as Stephen did. And her mother her mother had made herself cheap, horribly cheap. It was understandable for anyone falling she had the grace to blush at the thought but to keep it up for

years and years and with a working man like Andrew Maclntyre, it was beastly. She could stand no more, she must get home, even if it was to row with Gerald. She could almost hear him saying, "That was why she took it all so calmly, us having to get married. Kind ... huh!" He must get the car out and get them away from here before dark. What a Christmas Day! It was terrible, shocking. And not one of them had had a bite of dinner. She dropped her eyes from her mother's as she said,

"I - I - we'll be going home. I - I can't talk now." Then, like Stephen, she hurried from the room, but without banging the door behind her. There was only Jane left. As Grace looked at her younger daughter she began to tremble. If Jane turned against her, if her reactions followed those of Stephen and Beatrice, she couldn't bear it. She forced herself to say, "Come here, Jane."

When Jane did not move she pulled herself up from the couch and, after a quick glance at Andrew, she went towards her.

"Jane." She leaned forward to take one hanging hand into her own, but it was jerked upwards away from her.

"Oh, Jane, please, please look at me ... Please."

When Jane at last answered the desperate plea, it was as much as Grace could do to meet her eyes. Stephen had looked at her with hate, Beatrice with shocked incredulity, but the look in the young girl's eyes showed neither hate nor incredulity. Grace could see that Jane believed all she had been told and that she was hurt and bewildered, but above all else she was shamed.

"Jane ... Grace forced herself to go on.

"You have always liked Andrew, now haven't you? You know you have.

Why, just yesterday you defended him to Stephen."

Jane's eyes dropped from her mother's and her young face became hard as she murmured, "I - I wouldn't have if I'd known."

"Don't say that."

"It's all right." Andrew came slowly towards them, his voice unusually humble as he said, "I understand. And you will too, Jane, later, when you're older ... and married."

"Married!" Now Jane was looking at him and she repeated, "Married!

I'll never marry now, you've spoiled it all. George will . With a swift movement she turned her back on them and leant over the piano.

"George is a good man, I'm sure of that; everything will be all right."

As Andrew finished speaking he looked at Grace and nodded in the direction of the hall, and she took it to indicate that he was going to speak to George. As she watched him leave the room her thoughts, leaving Jane for a moment, went out to him. Poor Andrew, what he must be feeling to be looked down on and spurned as he had been in the past few hours and to take it all without exploding. Andrew was big; in all ways Andrew was big.

"How could you? How could you. Mammy?"

She was startled when Jane swung round to her a moment after the door closed, and she did not reply for some seconds, and then rather wearily, for of a sudden an overwhelming sense of deflation was sapping her, she said, "I've told you all I can ... it's as Andrew says, you won't understand until you're older."

"I'll never understand.... Daddy was so--' " Stop it, Jane. " Grace's voice had a cold ring to it now.

"Don't make me say things I'll be sorry for."

"Oh." Jane shook her head helplessly. The tears began to pour down her face and in a broken voice she exclaimed, "I can't stay here ... I can't. I'll ... I'll go with Beatrice."

"No, you won't go with Beatrice. You'll stay here."

"I won't ... I can't ... Can't you see, it would be unbearable?"

"You were going to George's people on Tuesday, wait until then."

"No, no, that'll be over."

"No it won't, darling."

"Don't touch me."

Grace almost jumped back, so sharp was Jane's recoil. Then, after one long bewildered look at her mother, she turned from her and stumbled out of the room, her hands covering her face.

"Jane! Oh, Jane! Don't, Jane." Grace was muttering to herself now as she stared towards the blank face of the door, then almost like someone advanced in years she moved towards the couch. She felt alone as she had never done in her life before; even the thought of Andrew could do nothing to fill this gaping void. Jane, Jane. She had relied on Jane understanding . it didn't matter so much about the other two, not really . but Jane. She put her hands between her knees and pressed them tightly. If only she could cry and relieve this unbearable feeling. Almost the last words of the doctor at Rockforts came back to her:

"You'll cry, never fear, and when you do you'll know you are better."

It was a paradox. If only she could cry now; this was the time she should cry, this moment of realisation that the main efforts of her life had been wasted.

Gerald was in the dining-room. He had his back to the wine-cabinet.

His chin was thrust out and nob bled with aggressiveness, and he stood tall to enable him to look down on the smaller man, as he growled, "Who the hell do you think you're getting at? I've told you I didn't know it was her. What bloody business is it of yours, anyway?

"

"I should've thought that was plain even to someone as thick-skinned as you."

"Now look here--' " Oh, stop your blustering. You can't get away from it, you intended to show him up. You knew when I spoke of his wife he hadn't one, but you couldn't get us face to face quick enough. You know what I think of you? I think you're a nasty swine. A word from you and I would have been on my guard and the man would have played up to it they both would have played up to it; but no, you let me in there and break up a family. You know, I could cheerfully murder you at this moment. "

"You'd better be careful." Gerald had stepped from the cabinet and, stretching still farther, he cried, "D'you hear what I say? You'd better be careful."

"Of what?" The cold question was as rebuffing as a blow, and Gerald felt it, but was saved by the door opening.

Beatrice immediately sensed the tension between the two men and the reason for it, also the fact that her husband was getting the worst of it. She said rapidly, "Get the car out, we're going home."

"Yes, and I should damn well think so." Gerald resorted to the supporting habit of buttoning up his coat, then, turning to the man, he said, "But let me tell you. I'm not finished with you over this.

I'm going to have this out. "

"Any time you like." The voice was restrained, and as Gerald barged from the room the man moved to the door and held it while Beatrice, with her eyes averted, passed him. He was still holding the door when he saw Andrew.

Andrew waited until Beatrice and Gerald reached the landing, then he walked slowly into the dining-room. After the man had closed the door behind him they faced each other.

"I can't think of anything to say only I'd like you to know I'm sorry to the core."

"That's all right."

"I never for a moment guessed, you believe that?"

"Yes."

"What can I say, I'm all at sea. I - I--' " Don't worry yourself, it's one of those . well, coincidences they would say. I've always felt it would come out one day, but Grace . she felt it was all over when he went, and we were safe she was just waiting until . until Jane was settled . will this make any difference? "

"Don't be daft, man."

For the first time in the past three hours Andrew's face relaxed from its grey grimness. The reply, couched in such a familiar and ordinary phrase, said all he wanted to know.

"Thanks."

"I love Jane, I mean to marry her. I did the first moment I saw her. I would have come here before, but ... well, she was so young. She told me she was a year older than she really is, you know." He smiled.

"But now it can be as soon as possible. The sooner the better, I would say." He paused now before adding, "I never, of course, met the vicar, but I'm glad that you are her father."

He held out his hand.

From where she sat near the bed Grace heard the taxi draw up in front of the house, and she stopped herself from rising and going to the window. Jane had said she

would write. Her head bowed as if the shame was hers, she had stood in front of her a few minutes ago and murmured, "I'll write. Mammy."

That was all.

"I'll write, Mammy." Jane, her daughter, had left her. She put her forefinger between her teeth and bit hard on it.

Would that man be good to her? Yes, yes, he would. As Andrew said, he seemed a good man. He had apologised to her with such deep humility for being the instigator of the trouble that she had to reassure him that he was not to blame. And then he had said, "Let me take Jane to my home. I can make up some excuse for bringing her ... suspected polio ... or something. And I can assure you she will come round...

I'll do my best to see that she does. Trust her with me, will you?"

He had taken her hand, and then he had said, "I liked your Andrew the first time I saw him. I like him even better today." Yes, he was a nice man, a good man.

There came now the sound of the taxi starting up. She got to her feet and began walking about the room. This was what she had been wanting for a long time, wasn't it, for Jane to be settled and them all to be gone. But not in this way, not to scuttle from her as if from a leper.

That's what she was to them . a leper.

The house was quiet now. There was no-one in it but herself and Peggy Mather. Her head lifted on the thought. Yesterday, even this morning, she had been afraid of Peggy Mather because of what she knew. Now she was afraid of her no more. She would be down in the kitchen now licking her lips over the day's happenings, knowing that her tongue would be free to wag. This past three weeks must have been a torment to her. Was it only three weeks since Andrew and herself had been confronted by her at the door of the cottage? They had just kissed good night, and when Andrew opened the door he still had his arm around

her and instead of drawing it away he had jerked it more tightly still when they were enveloped by the light from a torch. It seemed only a split second before he was flashing his own torch on the intruder and she had gasped aloud when it revealed the purple, suffused face of Peggy Mather. Andrew acted as quickly as if his wits hadn't received a shock. In a minute he was facing and talking to the outraged cook.

She could hear him now.

"One word from you about this and I go to Miss Shawcross. You're depending on getting what she's got, aren't you?

Well, you won't stand a dog's chance if she knows you've done time, and you needn't bother denying it either, for I happened to be passing away an hour in court at Durham one day when I saw you being sent down .

stealing from your employer, pilfering here and there. Six months is what you got, and it was your third offence, if I remember rightly.

"

Peggy Mather had not denied this. The strange thing was she hadn't spoken at all . perhaps the shock had been too much for her. She had pretended for a long time now to hate Andrew Maclntyre, the reason being that Andrew from the first had shown her plainly he wanted nothing to do with her. But why had she gone up to the cottage that night? Neither Andrew nor she could see any reason for it, except a rather delicate one but they would really never know now. Certain they were that it hadn't been to spy on them, for she had been the most startled of the three.

And now she was down there in the kitchen laughing up her sleeve.

Well, let her laugh. Perhaps she wouldn't laugh so much after she had heard what she had to say. For she would say to her, "I won't be wanting you after tomorrow, Peggy. I will pay you an extra week's wages in lieu of notice." She would pause, then add, "That is when you return the number of things you have taken from my house over the years ... there are two rings and the gold watch that disappeared during my illness ... you ascribed their disappearance to a hawker who passed through the village, I remember.